


taibhreamh

by DrSchaf



Category: Boondock Saints (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Blood, Canon-Typical Violence, Codependency, Crisis of Faith, Dreams, Explicit Sexual Content, Foreshadowing, Injury Recovery, M/M, Major Character Injury, Permanent Injury, Pining, Religious Guilt, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Sibling Incest, Twincest, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-14
Updated: 2018-07-30
Packaged: 2019-05-23 11:12:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 103,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14933144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DrSchaf/pseuds/DrSchaf
Summary: “Hush now,” Connor says, quiet, bringing images back in a flash.It wasn't that long ago, their birthday. It's only been a couple of days and so much is different now, and nothing changed at all.He's out like a light.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> First of all: my biggest THANK YOU goes to my beta, Chainsawlicker. This story wouldn't be what it is without you. I'll be forever grateful that I found you, now please sit back and enjoy :)  
> The next goes to pocalda for listening to me going on about this story for more than a year without ever telling me to shut up. You have my gratitude also :D
> 
>  
> 
> The story is set after the first movie and doesn't cover the events of the second, but it's more or less canon compliant.  
> There are 18 chapters in total and I'll upload a new one every few days, but I'm open to suggestions if anyone has a better idea. I don't plan to put extra warnings in the notes, so please have a look at the tags before reading and feel free to ask if anything is unclear :)
> 
> Have fun!

It's a cave.

He's outside, Murphy thinks, shivering in the cold. Connor kneels in the distance, easy to see despite the darkness; he knows him, his eyes always find him.

Him and his rosary, heavy around Connor's neck as he prays in silence.

Murphy takes a step forward, taking the light with him. It burns on his skin, cold and soothing, and he can't let it reach his brother.

Out of the shadows, Connor looks up and stills in the middle of signing the cross. He has no face. “Murph,” he says. The light is almost upon him. Murphy wants to reach out and warn him, to grip his shoulder and pull him away, but he doesn't have a body and he can't move any longer.

“Yer not supposed to be here.”

There's an echo, endless, and no walls.

Murphy moves, pushing toward the brittle voice.

“Murph.”

He wants to leave.

Connor gets to his feet, face pulled tight in pain. “Ye weren't supposed to know,” he says and cries.

*

Murphy sits up with a grunt. His skin crawls and his shirt sticks to his back, and it takes the honk of a car to anchor him back to reality. “Connor?” he whispers, flopping back on the mattress as Connor turns. The sparse light of the street lamp peeking through the curtain isn't enough to let him see more details than vague shapes, but he can imagine Connor's stink eye just fine. He doesn't like being woken in the middle of the night, be that on accident or because something is on fire.

“What?”

“Forget it.”

“Fucking what?” Connor mutters, groggy and hoarse and irritation audible two states over. “The fuck ye wake me for?”

“I didn't,” Murphy points out, because he didn't. Connor moved before he even whispered his name, but it's too late now, and even though Connor can't see him, Murphy glares in his direction to pretend his heart isn't still hammering in overtime. He props himself up on his elbow. “Did ye dream too?” he asks, only a bit embarrassed.

It's a legit question nowadays and that is not his fault.

“Murph.”

Murphy frowns, listening to something that sounds like it wants to be a sigh. “Well, did ye?”

“Why would I?”

“Cause I did,” Murphy stresses, managing a glare for all of two seconds until it's too embarrassing after all and he lies back to stare at the general direction of the ceiling. “Ye were in it, too.”

There's a pause, warm and awkward.

“Is this going to be a thing now?” Connor sighs again, then the sheets rustle and light floods the room. “All right, what did I do? In that dream of yers.”

“Well,” Murphy says. “Ye know,” he adds, lowering his voice back to a whisper. It's still night and it seems only appropriate. Also, he has no answer, at least nothing that's worth telling Connor about. There's a leftover feeling, cold and somehow soothing—which doesn't make sense. He's sweaty and gross, not cold, and there's no echo either. Like back then.

A voice with an echo.

“Take yer time.”

Murphy flips him off, cheeks hot because it was fucking stupid to bring it up. Of course it's not a shared dream if he can't remember the details only minutes later. The Calling happened months ago, almost half a year, and it's still in his mind, always-fresh and never worn. In comparison, this dream is obviously a regular one.

If a bit creepy.

“Might as well get up,” Connor mutters. There's an almighty line on his forehead. He looks like he's about sixty, all mumbling and complaining, and Murphy rolls his eyes, squinting to not get blinded as Connor moves past their beds and into the bathroom, which leaves him to stare at the ugly green of the door.

The motel has a theme, for whatever reason. The curtains are green. The sheets. The blankets and the vase and the table. Not the chairs though, they're blue.

Murphy gets up with a yawn and rummages through their bags until he finds reasonably fresh clothes, then he cleans up the leftover mess of empty beer bottles, smoke packs, and odd pretzel sticks. There's room service, but there are also guns and maps and the entire shebang with being fugitives, and Connor is a pig in general - in his humble opinion - so cleaning up is left to him, as always.

“Dunno what yer frowning about,” Connor gripes, a towel around his hips and steam following after him. “It's me who should be frowning, getting woken up because ye've got a bad dream like yer five all over again.”

“Yer the one who crawled into my bed when we were five, not the other way around,” Murphy points out, frowning as Connor glares at him again.

“Whatever.” Connor marches past, wet and tanned even though lying around in the sun doesn't go well with being hunted by the FBI. Fucker and his skin, honestly, and his bitching about disturbed beauty sleep usually lasts until he showered, not longer than that. “That's my shirt.”

“What?” Murphy blinks until he gets with the program and looks down at himself. “It's not,” he says. “I bought it and ye burrowed it.”

“Ye bought it with my money.”

“The fuck is yer money supposed to be?” Murphy rolls his eyes, and Connor doesn't move. “Do ye actually want me to take it off?”

Connor shrugs, a bit weird.

“Fucking fine, but yer buying breakfast.” Murphy pulls the shirt off and throws it at Connor's head, somewhat pleased when it lands in his face. “There, now stop harassing me.”

“I'm not harassing ye,” Connor mumbles, looking at the shirt with a face that's weird enough, Murphy turns to the bathroom so he doesn't have to see it.

Inside, he sighs at the sink.

Connor's weirdness is so vague, he hasn't been able to put his finger on it, and his plan to wait Connor out until he spills is going to fail tremendously. It's coming as a prickle in the back of his mind, as a look he can't interpret, as a joke that falls flat. He'd rather be home when it happens instead of sitting in a green motel room waiting for instructions, but this is what they chose.

The town is safe for a while; small without much traffic, their motel the only one for miles, and the news reports on the Yakavetta shooting have died down as well. They don't need to _run_ all the time to be on the run, and they're simply not that interesting, in his opinion. The police aren't omnipresent. There's no reason to stay cooped up anywhere, but Connor won't hear of it.

“I'm heading out,” Connor calls through the door.

Murphy opens it wide enough to stick his head out. “Something that isn't pancakes,” he says, eying his shirt on Connor's frowning form. “And not one of those town papers. Get a real one this time, will ye?”

Connor rolls his eyes, but he doesn't grab his wallet quick enough to hide his smile. “Aye, Ma,” he says anyway, because of course he does.

The door falls shut behind him, and Murphy gets back to his business, idly contemplating whether he should unpack or wait for Connor's opinion first. Putting the decision off, he pulls the hood of his sweater over his head, shoves his gun under his belt, and walks out with the memory of Noah's disapproving frown on his mind.

The special one he always sported when he saw them handling their guns without the same level of disturbing care he treated his guns with.

Noah won't find out now. Tired, he had said, booking transport home. Old, Murphy had thought, keeping his mouth shut. 'What are we supposed to do on our own?' Connor had said, eyes big as if they hadn't been on their fucking own since forever, even before they came here; roaming dirty back roads and bars, always looking for opportunities and fights and laughs.

There's no arguing with Connor about it. Noah is 'Da' for him, he loved him from the start, and Murphy can't and won't compete with someone Connor looks up to as a father figure even though Doc fills out the role perfectly fine. It doesn't matter that they haven't talked in a while, with the FBI tracking all of their associates.

There's no need for someone like Noah in his life, and Noah obviously thought the same.

“Staying for longer?” the clerk asks.

“Yep,” Murphy says, shoving money over the counter as the man looks away again, very convenient to not make any impression on him in case he remembers that his face used to be all over the news not too long ago. Given his drooping eyelids, it works just fine.

When Murphy gets back to their room, he's greeted by the smell of coffee and sugar and another variation of Connor's frown. “What?” Murphy says, pulling off the sweater. “Paid for another night, is all.”

Connor shrugs and plops down on one of the chairs. “Just wondered.”

They eat.

“So,” Murphy says when he picks up the last crumbs. “Want to stay here for a while longer or not?”

“What for?”

Murphy blinks at Connor half-lying on his chair. “Dunno. It's cozy enough, I suppose.”

“Cozy.” Connor rolls his eyes, then he shrugs. “If that's what ye want.” Even in the dim light, the dark circles under his eyes are prominent enough to see. Murphy keeps his eyes on them.

“Didn't sleep well? Ye look beat.”

“Guess not.” Connor stretches with a sigh. “Let's check out where we're at, I'm fucking bored.”

“Now?”

“Nah, tomorrow.”

They go. Connor drives, and Murphy looks at their surroundings, trying to spot some sort of entertainment, maybe an odd looking criminal - they're great at spotting them by now - anything to do while they're here, but he comes up empty.

There's nothing going on at all. Which would be shady in itself, if the town was any bigger.

“This is worse than home,” Connor comments. “At least there were bars everywhere.”

Murphy glances over. “We could stock up on some beer.”

They share a look, and some kind of diffuse tension dissipates, lifting a weight from Murphy's chest even though he wasn't aware of its existence.

“I think Die Hard is on tonight,” Connor says, waggling his eyebrows.

“Deal.”

One stop at the liquor store later, they've got enough beer and whiskey to drown their brains, and after stopping for dinner along the way, they settle in.

Connor drones out a running commentary on motorcycle technicalities, crumbs flying everywhere and empty bottles stacking up around them until it feels like they're back at their old apartment. Murphy watches the line on Connor's forehead smooth out and his lips part in a grin, and warmth settles first in his chest, then in his soul. He curls his fingers around his rosary and sends a prayer upwards, pleading for the peace to last.

*

_Ye weren't supposed to know._

A violent noise gets stuck in his throat. Murphy clamps his teeth around it and gets up without looking at the other bed.

The hot water helps to unclench muscles he didn't know he'd been pulling tight, forcing the air from his lungs until he gives in and lets his thoughts run free.

Noah, Rocco, basement, home.

They spin in circles, running wild until Murphy submits and bows his head, fist pressed against the tiles to reign himself back in. He allows himself to sob once, twice, then it's enough.

He steps out of the shower and wraps a towel around his shoulders to keep it in, that ache he doesn't want to name. It's easy when Connor isn't in his line of sight, when his eyes can't wander in his direction, forever pulled in like a giant magnet is buried in Connor's chest.

He's a tactile person. It's a fact he knows now while he never needed to consciously think about it before. He knows because he's used to touch and be touched, and body contact doesn't happen anymore. No back claps, nudges, headlocks, hands on shoulders or arms pressed together during prayer. Connor exists next to him like he's on a different lane, driving on without ever crossing over, calm and fucking depressed, and he thinks he wouldn't _notice_ , which makes him a stupid fucking twat.

“Are ye drowning in there?”

Murphy flips off the door.

It has to be about Rocco. Connor's mood has been shit ever since Noah left and they slowed down from frantically driving through the countryside to something resembling a road trip—with killing. They haven't had time to mourn Rocco, and Connor, despite trying to appear like he isn't attached to anyone or anything, loves fiercely, and he must miss Rocco fiercely as well.

If there is another explanation, he can't see it.

Probably because he's hiding in the fucking bathroom.

“Murph?”

“What?” he hollers, grabbing his toothbrush to at least pretend to be busy.

“The fuck yer doing in there?”

“Come in and find out,” he mutters.

“Yer disgusting,” Connor declares behind the door. “Nobody wants to fucking see that, fucking Christ. Just hurry up.”

Sputtering, Murphy bangs his elbow against the door. “I'm not fucking wanking! Stop lurking, ye creep.” There are no more words, only aggressive mumbling, so Murphy brushes his teeth and forms a plan.

He'll have to talk to Connor about it, and he'll have to be quick about it while trying to appear like he's isn't trying to talk about it, and best not as if he's in a hurry about it either.

Grand.

With resolve, Murphy stalks out of the bathroom, meets Connor halfway—and stares at the door when it slams shut in front of his face. “Really?”

“Really,” Connor calls.

Murphy huffs, gets dressed, and leaves to buy breakfast.

When he gets back, Connor sits at the table, bent over the map. He frowns; a new and foreign fucking concept.

“Pancakes?” Murphy offers, shaking the bag. If it won't turn Connor's mood around, at least it's a means to occupy himself with during their talk.

Connor looks up with a smile. It's reserved for the bag in his hand, but still. It's a smile.

They sit and eat, and Murphy stares at his coffee, thinking about a way to start the conversation and coming up empty while Connor looks more often at him than his own food. Then he sighs and stabs a piece of his pancake.

“Spit it out, then.”

Murphy clears his throat. “Ye look tired,” he starts.

“Thanks, love.”

Rolling his eyes, Murphy reaches for the pancakes. “Yesterday, ye were tired as well,” he says as he swats Connor's hand away.

Connor jerks back his arm, sending the fork flying. “Ye don't even like pancakes,” he says, eyes down, and then he reaches for the coffee.

“The fuck?” Murphy stares, and Connor won't look at him. “It's not about the pancakes, ye fucking arsehole. I bought them because-”

“Because yer trying to get me in the right mood to say whatever it is yer planning to say. Spit it the fuck out, I've got no patience for this.” Connor glances up, too short to make sense. “Want more coffee?”

“Are ye actually insane?” Murphy waits, crossing his arms. “Right, here we go then: I know something isn't right.”

Connor is frozen, everything about him from his eyes to his fingers and his breath, and Murphy glares at once.

“Aye, don't ye fucking think I wouldn't notice,” he mutters, itching for a fight and clenching his fists in preparation, but the seconds tick by and nothing happens, no movement or insult at all. Murphy blinks. “I don't- The fuck is this even about? I'm trying to say that ye don't have to talk about whatever pissed ye off, is all.”

“All right.”

Murphy stares on, eventually uncrossing his arms and relaxing, but it doesn't seem to be enough; Connor's knuckles are still white around his coffee and he hasn't picked up his fork either. “I mean, ye obviously don't want to talk about it or ye would've already. I'm just thinking, ye know, that we could take a break or whatever. Until we sort this out.”

“A break,” Connor repeats, dull and hoarse—familiar, tingling in his mind like a memory he can't recall.

An image of a pale face, long fingers clasping a rosary, knuckles white with it.

“If that's what ye need,” Murphy says slowly, trying to get a hold of the memory. “It's just an idea. I was thinking ye might want to, not that I think ye should.” To busy his hands, he lights two smokes, and Connor manages to take his one without brushing against his fingers. It's irritating enough to start a fight over, but his brother looks outright down with what he said already and he hasn't said anything of importance yet, nor has he any idea how to start sorting this mess or what questions he should be asking to begin with.

“What are ye suggesting?” Connor asks. “Where would ye want to go?”

Murphy shrugs. “We could always go back.”

Connor takes a long drag and follows the smoke with his eyes. “Back home, ye mean.” He sighs, but his voice is gentle. “Da's there.”

“Aye.”

Connor shakes his head. “Nah, no need for that. But if yer asking - I don't fancy staying here either.”

“Too green?” Murphy says, grinning. “We could hit up Duffy, see if he can set us up with something nicer. This place gives me the creeps anyway.”

“Why?”

The question sounds legit, which is weird enough Murphy takes a moment to think about it. “Think it's giving me nightmares.” He wrinkles his nose. “It's haunted, I suppose,” he says, laughing—and flinching back as Connor's hard stare lands on him. “What?”

“I'll sort the laundry.” Connor stands, looking past him. “We can get it done next to that supply store. There's a payphone as well.”

Murphy sits, unsure how to respond, where to fucking start with the bloody mess each of their conversations turns out to be. At length, he nods, fleeing the table as Connor shoots him an unreasonably relieved look.

They call Duffy and get directions to a safe house, and there's small talk, some jokes, one shared smoke. No casual touches from Connor's side, but maybe he flinches less when he's being touched, Murphy thinks, watching him out of the corners of his eyes.

It's better than nothing. They'll be gone by morning and then he won't have to pretend anymore the room is what sets Connor on edge. It will be the truth.

*

_Ye weren't supposed to know._

He's bathed in sweat, shivering with it, and he knows.

“Connor,” he hisses. “Connor, ye awake?” Fumbling for the light, Murphy stares at other bed. “Connor!” he says again, louder this time, and finds the switch at last.

“What is it?”

There's no movement at all.

Murphy shields his eyes, squinting at his brother, almost too agitated to miss how Connor doesn't sound sleepy in the slightest. “I dreamed about ye,” he says. “And yer not sleeping. Why the fuck aren't ye sleeping?”

“What?” Connor turns and looks at him, very awake and very close to balling his fists, judging from the face he's pulling. “Are ye waking me because ye had a nightmare? Again?”

“Who said it was a nightmare?”

“Murph, what do ye _want_?”

“Nothing,” Murphy says. He flops back on the mattress and stares at the ceiling to escape Connor's eyes. They're weird again, rightfully so. Maybe he's having a breakdown or something. Maybe he's the one who's depressed, not his brother. “I keep having this dream,” he says anyway, quietly. “Couldn't remember anything about it until now.”

“And?”

Connor's voice sounds odd, so Murphy turns his head and finds Connor looking back at him with his face soft and serious at the same time. “I don't remember many details,” Murphy says, “but I know I saw ye, and that ye said something. Or I said something, 'm not sure. But I do know ye were sad and someone said something, and there's this feeling...”

The memory fades away, taking the details with it no matter how hard he tries to hold onto them.

“Feeling?” Connor prompts mildly.

Murphy shrugs, face warm. “Sadness, I guess. When I wake up, it feels like something's on my chest. A heavy feeling, not a heavy object.” He glances over, skin crawling with drying sweat. “Dunno. It's the only the thing I remember for certain.”

There's silence, and he can't blame his brother, he wouldn't know what to say to that either.

“Maybe it's the motel, like ye said,” Connor says at length, quiet in the night even though they're wide awake by now. “It's going to be fine when we leave tomorrow.”

Murphy looks, and then he looks a bit longer, staring until he has to admit defeat. Something is off about Connor and he can't grasp what it is. “It wasn't me,” he says slowly. “Ye were the one who said something. In the dream.”

“It's just a nightmare, Murph.”

“Aye, maybe. Or maybe not,” he says, pausing for emphasis, but Connor doesn't bite. “It's like back when— _fuck_.”

Connor is halfway out of his bed before Murphy can wave him off.

“Ye weren't supposed to know!” he cries, scrambling up on his elbows. “That's what ye said!”

“I didn't,” Connor says, stoic like a fucking mule, and Murphy groans.

“That's what ye said, I know it.” His heart hammers, pounding in his ears. Murphy takes a shaky breath, hand pressed against his chest. “Fuck, I'm tired.”

“No surprise,” Connor mutters. “Yer good, then?”

“Guess.”

“Don't make it sound like a question.”

Murphy lies back, going for a grin he isn't sure will come out right. “Can't sleep when I'm distressed, is that it?”

The light turns off with a quiet buzz, leaving the room in a weird silence. “Can't sleep when ye wake me every few minutes, that's what it is.”

Murphy blinks through the dark, frowning now that he knows Connor can't see it. “Sorry about that,” he offers. “It was just too fucking weird and I didn't mean to- Aye, I'm gonna be good. Won't wake ye again.”

“Okay. That's good,” Connor says, quiet. “Night, Murph.”

It sounds like a question as well, and Murphy mulls it over until the familiar sound of Connor's breathing pulls him under and takes his thoughts away.

 

In the morning, he wakes with the dream again.

He doesn't mention it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I forgot to mention that Eunice will be stopping by. She'll have her set-up from the second movie as a part of the team without Connor and Murphy going to Ireland first. I hope it's not too confusing.

After checking out, Murphy harasses Connor to turn over the car keys, and when he actually wins, it's only because his twat of a brother feels the need to screw out of his arms - circled around him to reach for the bloody keys. Roughhousing, it's called.

A foreign concept.

Murphy gets into the car and throws the map in Connor's lap.

They spend a few tense minutes on the road, then Connor starts chattering, jumping from one topic to the next like he always does to pass time, and Murphy can't find it in him to stay mad given the fact that Connor is trying.

And he _is_ , it's a shame how obvious it's become, and it makes him wonder how long he overlooked the problem, how long he's been fucking blind to his own brother hurting. How long Connor has been keeping it from him.

A secret.

The concept is wild. They rarely kept secrets, and if they did, it was about accidentally ripping a hole in the other's favorite jeans, eating the last cookie and denying it, hiding the bruise of a hit that wasn't meant to hurt. Keeping secrets has never been about anything of importance.

With the radio in the background and the road ahead, Connor's chatter dies down to offhand comments about songs he doesn't know. Murphy rolls down his window, lights a smoke, and loses himself in his thoughts.

The dream is the only new variable in their lives. If Connor was still mourning Rocco, he had started months ago, not only recently. Noah has been gone for weeks as well, and everything else - apart from their isolated life, sleeping in motels, not having a steady income any longer - has been routine for years.

There has to be something about the dream, a reason why he keeps waking with it, with the words.

He isn't supposed to know, that's what Connor says.

Maybe Connor did something he shouldn't have. Something he's so worked up about, his hand keeps straying to his rosary in a frequency that'd make even the holiest person uncomfortable.

“Oi,” Connor says, reaching out and withdrawing again before he makes contact. He digs his fingers into his thigh instead, over his old scar.

Unwilling to start another fight, Murphy follows Connor's line of sight to a big yellow sign. “Hungry?”

“I could eat.” Connor shrugs. “Drive-through, lunch at the next parking spot?” His lips curve up, bringing out faint lines around his mouth and pulling him in, weirdly.

Murphy looks back at the road and mumbles a quick prayer in gratitude for the lack of traffic. “Sounds good,” he says at last.

Connor reaches for the cap and pulls it deep into his face, and with their collars turned up, they're through the diner and on the road again in a matter of minutes. A few miles out, they drive by a dirt road leading to a rest stop with a few benches strewn about, grass giving way to bushes and trees, a forest following behind.

Pulling over, they leave the car behind to settle at a picnic table. The smell of flowers and grass mixes with the smell of too much oil and burned buns, and it's nice, and Connor smiles, a real smile this time, and it's even nicer. Content, Murphy peels out of his sweater and regrets it immediately when the cool breeze brings out goosebumps on his arms.

They eat.

“So,” Murphy says eventually, wiping his hand over his mouth to get rid of the grease. “What did ye do?”

Connor blinks, a fry halfway to his mouth. “What now?”

Bringing up the dream again would be excessive, and he shouldn't be too blunt about Connor's problem either, after the debacle of the day before, and Connor does look calm enough, picking at his leftover fries. So Murphy nods. “Ye know.”

“I don't.”

He rubs over his goosebumps and goes for a glare while trying to make sense of the unusual shade of blue Connor's eyes are sporting. It's probably the light. Or the lack of his ever-present shades. And his eyes aren't the point anyway, he has countless other shortcomings and they have to come up on the table right this moment. Murphy sits up, focusing. “Did ye break something?”

“What?”

“Just answer.”

“I didn't break a bloody thing.”

“Did ye steal something?” Murphy asks. “Nah, forget it.” He sighs, squinting at Connor's blank stare. “Or did ye? Forget something?”

Connor throws the balled up burger bag at his head. Murphy sputters, flipping him off as Connor laughs and reaches for his drink.

“I'll talk to ye when ye make sense again,” Connor declares. “Definitely not before that.” He sucks the straw into his mouth and grins around it, and Murphy decides to fend off the cold after all, with the bloody goosebumps everywhere.

“Well, I know ye did _some_ thing,” he says as he fumbles for his sweater. “I'll find out sooner or later and then I'll belt yer arse for it.”

“Yer living in a fantasy world, Murph,” Connor says, still grinning when he starts to pile up their trash. “But that's just fine. Ye've got me, I'll tell ye everything about the real world.”

Murphy snorts, standing to help clear the table, and then he stretches, popping something that isn't used to driving for hours on end while Connor grows still beside him, face turned toward the sun and eyes closed.

“Missed this.”

Murphy hums and watches him soak up the sun until it's weird and he lights a cigarette to watch the smoke curl up into the air instead. Gray against blue, ever upwards. Somewhat freeing, if he thinks about it. Out of the long habit of being broke, he offers the smoke to Connor.

As expected, Connor shakes his head, so Murphy turns away to pretend he can't feel an ominous sting somewhere in his chest. He leans over and takes their trash, and Connor freezes against his shoulder.

Chest against shoulder, their only point of contact; too much now, fucking apparently.

“Didn't see me coming, eh?” Murphy says, jaw clenched and still trying to plaster a grin on his face. There's no answer, but he doesn't wait to hear one either. He walks back to the car, turns up the radio, and waits until Connor gets in, rocking them with the movement.

He felt good earlier, like _before_ even though it hasn't been that long. They've been on the run for a couple of months, not more.

Sometimes he looks at Connor and it feels like it's been years, and then he sees himself in a mirror or in a window in passing, and he still looks the same. Maybe a bit harder around the eyes, a bit meaner, but essentially, he's still the same. Not a year ago, they were working at a meatpacking factory, and in the evenings, they went to McGinty's or stayed home, flat extraordinarily shitty and always smelling of something unpleasant; spilled beer, cold ash, rotten food in the fridge.

A fridge with a picture on it, a little blue magnet holding it in place.

He still has it.

It's a secret, his only one. There's no reason he took it, back after the hospital, after Doc and before Rocco, packing up what remained of their belongings after everything flooded. Connor was bent over something, a bag maybe, rummaging around while muttering under his breath, and Murphy took the picture, folded it, and stuffed it into the pocket of his jeans.

It's in his bullet case, at the bottom. Underneath, so it won't show.

He never looks at it.

But it's still only been one year.

“Let's get going,” he says, voice thick with whatever, and starts the car.

*

It's afternoon when they arrive at the address Duffy gave them.

The parochial house is tucked away behind a church and the key is hidden in a pot of lavender. There's a bedroom, a kitchen, a study, and a living room with a couch and an armchair, and Murphy can't stop clearing his throat. When he finally does, he switches to scratch at his neck instead, and then he rolls his eyes at himself, marches to the armchair, and plops down.

“Dibs,” he says, glancing at his brother as if Connor would insist one of them should sleep in the bedroom instead of here, together. The mere thought is ridiculous, they never had separate bedrooms, but still.

Who knows with Connor's moods nowadays.

Connor frowns and smiles at the same time, looking like an utter tool and lifting Murphy's mood greatly. “We'll be staying for a while, I suppose. We can switch up some time.”

“Aye.”

Like the pig he is, Connor drops his bags where he stands and throws himself on the couch. “We've got to buy groceries.”

“And let Duffy know we're here. It's gonna take a few days until one of them comes, no?”

“Suppose.”

“We should check out where we're at before that.”

Connor cranes his head to look at him. The tattoo on his neck stretches with the movement, making her dance. “We fucking should,” he says. “It's about time we got stuff to do again.”

“It's been a week,” Murphy says, kicking out in Connor's general direction even though he isn't even close enough to reach the couch.

“Lies.”

Murphy scoffs. “Yer a hyperactive knob with no sense of time, that's what it is.”

“I apologize for wanting to have something else to do besides staring at yer hideous mug all day.”

Murphy kicks out again, outraged and lazy. “Shut yer gob, ye love my mug. I'm fucking gorgeous, ye know.”

“Shut up,” Connor says. There's a pause. “Call first, then groceries, then dinner?”

He nods and they get to work.

When it's dark and they're on their knees, fingers closed around the beads of their rosaries, Murphy prays like he always prays and he finishes before Connor does—like he never does.

He's heard Connor pray since he knew how to pray, there's nothing strange or particularly private about listening to him reciting parts of Our Father, but Murphy refrains from listening too closely anyway and focuses on his knees instead, on the rough carpet under his skin as Connor's fingers wander from one bead to the next until he's come full circle, praying the whole fucking thing.

He can't recall ever seeing Connor pray the whole Rosary just like this, out of order, regardless of the day. It doesn't feel right.

After the last amen, the room falls silent.

Murphy gets up and offers Connor his hand, pulling him up, heart fucking light simply because Connor allows the touch. They go to sleep; Connor on the couch with a face that says he's pleased enough about its length, and Murphy on the armchair, legs drawn up and a blanket over his lap.

*

_Ye weren't supposed to know._

Despite his pounding heart, Murphy keeps quiet as he blinks through the bright room. At least he managed to sleep through the night for once, though his leg feels like it's about to fall off.

He unfolds with a groan, stretching his leg as Connor looks over. “There used to be a time when ye woke me with coffee,” he says, pushing the blanket off and digging his fingers into his thigh. “Better fucking times.” He glares in Connor's direction just for the sake of it, then some more when Connor rolls on his side, face soft with sleep and eyes still half closed.

“'m sorry, love,” he rumbles.

“Don't mock me.” Murphy pulls a face, fingers working to no avail, and whines down at his rock-hard muscle.

“Can't remember a time when ye were the one waking me with coffee,” Connor comments. “Wonder why that is.”

The idea never even occurred to him. The ritual is supposed to go the other way around, it always did.

“We're not doing this again, I gather?” Connor nods at both the armchair and his leg, and Murphy pulls another face, trying for pitiful this time.

“We won't, all right. I'm too big for this bloody thing.” He looks up. “We still got that salve?”

Connor blinks, then he gets up with a sigh. “Balm,” he says, aiming for their bags.

“Whatever.”

Hand plunged into the depths of a bag, Connor rolls his eyes. When he comes back, he holds a small jar in his hand. “Off,” he says, dropping to his knees.

Murphy complies. “That was fast,” he says to say something, to pretend the act isn't as momentous as it is—Connor is offering to touch him. Without having to. While droning on about packing orders and the importance of quick accessibility of emergency supplies.

It's rather unclear why a balm intended for dry hands after using cheap motel soaps for a month counts as 'emergency supplies', but Connor unscrews the lid of the jar and curls his fingers into it, and Murphy decides to leave it be.

“Don't be a sap now,” Connor says, glancing up, and puts his hand on his thigh.

Murphy hisses through the initial pain, twitching away as Connor's thumb circles the cramped muscles, but Connor keeps up, patient as ever, until the pain borders on pleasant. “Fuck,” Murphy breathes, sinking back against the cushions. “Fuck, that's good.” The cramp melts under Connor's fingers, releasing its tension to who knows where. He couldn't care less. What he cares about is persuading these talented fingers to not leave again, ever.

“Say when.”

“A bit more,” Murphy says, grinning down and earning himself a painful squeeze to a still very sore spot. He kicks out, and Connor presses down to hold him in place before his fingers dig back in, gentle and firm and perfect and—

“A hot shower should do the rest.”

The crafty hands leave, and Murphy sighs in loss. “Fucking shame,” he tells Connor's back, then he sits up and pokes at his leg to test the result. It seems fine enough, so he stands and squeezes Connor's shoulder in passing, and when he's in the shower, his brain catches up to the fact that Connor didn't flinch back.

Fucking finally.

*

During their exploration of the nearby area, they spot a brothel and stake it out for some time and obvious reasons, observing the comings and goings until the sun sets and the customers change from simple, greedy men who lost faith, possibly cheating on their wives but not worth their while, to more interesting characters; bigger cars, flashier outfits, bulkier frames.

Under the streetlight, their car isn't as hidden as it should be, but nobody seems to pay attention to them.

“Got one.”

Murphy follows Connor's line of sight. “Dunno, could be a dealer of some sort.”

“Might be.” Connor shrugs, flicking ash out of the window. “Look at his hair, though.”

He does, with some fascination. “He loves himself pretty fiercely, doesn't he?”

“Quite right,” Connor says, pausing before he flashes him an ominous grin. “Bet he's touching himself in front of the mirror.”

“Fuck, don't.” Murphy laughs, bumping his fist against Connor's shoulder. “I won't be getting that image out of my head, thank ye.”

Connor grins with all of his teeth, white and pretty in the dark. “Yer gonna think about him? During what?” he says, and it takes his raised eyebrows for Murphy to catch on. He yelps, gripping Connor's hair and yanking him back against the seat. Connor howls. An elbow connects with Murphy's cheekbone, making him howl in return before Connor pinches him, the fucker, and Murphy flicks his nose, and then he's immobilized in, face pressed against Connor's chest.

“Always with yer fucking headlocks,” he mutters, butting his head against Connor's belly when he receives a snort.

“I'm superior, obviously,” Connor says, the arse, though he sounds out of breath. Murphy struggles against his hold, futile. “Admit it,” Connor sings, squeezing him tighter before he freezes.

“What?” Murphy says. “What is it?” He cranes his head, trying to peer outside. Something shifts under his face, catching on his ear. Connor yanks it loose—his rosary, that's what it is. His grip goes lax.

“What?” Murphy sits up, glancing at his brother while trying to spot the threat, still on high fucking alert, but there's nothing. No one looks their way let alone storms over to arrest or murder them. “The fuck was that?”

“Nothing,” Connor says. “Let's see if we can scope that guy out tomorrow, there's something fishy about him.”

Murphy swallows down his first response and then his second, and then he looks away. “Aye.”

“Don't make it weird now,” Connor says, quiet and off, and restarts the car.

Making anything weird isn't his doing and the fucking bastard knows it, but Murphy stays quiet nonetheless.

*

Back at the house, Connor wanders about, face pale despite his tan and movements slow like he doesn't have a goal. Before dinner, he prays without even an attempt at small talk and then he squares his shoulders and stops in front of him.

“I can take the armchair tonight.”

It sounds like a genuine offer and these are the first words he hears in hours, and he can't even agree in good conscience. Connor won't fit in the fucking armchair either, there's no difference in height between them.

“Or ye sleep in the bed.” Connor shrugs, eyeing the wall. “It's the same to me.”

He can't object without sounding needy. He's a grown man, he's fucking able to sleep in a different room without crying himself to sleep, for fuck's sake. “Fine.”

“Fine.”

Connor disappears into the bathroom without another word, and after changing, they miss each other in the hallway. When Murphy gets out of the bathroom himself, the light in the living room is already turned off and he drags his heels as he closes the door and goes to bed.

Then he gets up again, leaves the door ajar, and goes back to bed.

Then he gets up a second time, creeps through the room, and opens the door all the way.

It's pathetic.

He lies back down and holds his breath until he's able to hear Connor shifting on the couch, his quiet breathing on the edge of Murphy's hearing range while his thoughts circle around secrets and mistakes that are dark enough Connor thinks he can't trust him with them.

*

_Ye weren't supposed to know._

Murphy wakes with a yell that dies the second he snaps open his eyes. He's out of bed and in the living room at once, rushing to the armchair and grabbing the blanket from the night before. Probably awake due to his trampling, Connor blinks at him from the couch with a look that's rather unsurprised.

“Another nightmare?” he asks, dull like he doesn't want to hear the answer.

Which is just fine, he doesn't want to give him one anyway. Instead, Murphy curls his fingers around the edge of the blanket, eyes drawn in by Connor's rosary. It's on his chest, right in the middle, a stark contrast to his skin.

They don't _do_ that, wearing the rosaries to bed. It's uncomfortable when the beads dig into the skin and leave imprints for hours - if one doesn't accidentally strangle oneself in the first place, and also—the idea never even occurred to him. Putting the rosary around his neck is always accompanied by leaving the house.

It's for the outside-world, not necessary in the inside-world at all.

The silence is getting awkward and he can't look away even as Connor moves and the rosary slips, landing on the cushion with a soft sound.

“I've got a craving,” Connor murmurs, and Murphy's heart skips a beat. “Think I'll go get some pancakes. Real ones, not that shite out of the bottle.”

“Fuck,” Murphy breathes, his hand over his heart.

This can't go on. He can't be suspicious of every word. It's no way to live, always fucking trying to find a hidden meaning, guessing what goes on in that thick head of Connor's in contrast to what he's saying; blathering on about balms and breakfast and shady fuckers who visit brothels. Fucking harmless, fucking Christ.

Hail Mary.

“I can get something else for ye.” Connor shrugs with one shoulder. “They've got doughnuts too, I think.”

“It's a fucking bakery, of course they've got fucking doughnuts,” Murphy snaps. Then he pauses, astonished, and backpedals. “Aye, get me doughnuts. I'll make coffee.”

Connor's questioning eyebrows haunt him all the way to the bathroom.

Listening with half an ear to Connor leaving, Murphy takes his time to calm down. He showers, soaping up, rinsing off, shaving, brushing his teeth, toweling his hair—he's taking his fucking time, and then he makes coffee and watches the news until the sun glares at a different angle.

There's no way the line at the bakery is that long. It's a five-minute drive.

Murphy smokes, a bit worried.

The minutes tick by until it's half an hour later, and then he gets pissed and spends some time on sorting their luggage, unpacking clothes, thumbing through the few books they have.

When it's been a full hour and he emptied the entire pot of coffee, his thoughts turned around in circles enough to give him a headache.

It's possible that Connor is, right this second, doing whatever it is he hides from him.

He's in for a beating, Murphy decides, nodding at the empty room while trying to fight the other thing inside of him, the one that'll leave him breathless with worry if he lets it.

If he lets it, if he—there's a police station nearby, and maybe Connor didn't take enough care this time. Who knows whether he rolled down his sleeves, turned up his collar, took care to cover up his tattoos—

A car rumbles outside, and Murphy flies to the window.

It's Connor. It's fucking Connor with his shades on and a fucking paper bag under his arm.

Murphy waits until his brother closes the door and sets the bag on the table, daring to look at peace and fucking harmless, and then he's on him and punches him square in the jaw.

“What the fuck?” Connor roars, stumbling back.

Murphy stalks after, secretly pleased as Connor walks against a chair in his confusion. “Where were ye?”

“I went to buy breakfast, ye fucking lunatic!”

“It's been an hour! What did ye do?” Murphy hisses, staring at Connor's face from inches away to see the bloody answer, but there's nothing _to_ see. There's fucking nothing, Connor's face is as blank as a wall, and Murphy's fingers itch to either punch him again or to grab him by the lapels and shake the answer out of him.

The second option it is.

Connor twists out of reach before he even made contact. “I stopped at the church,” he snaps. “I didn't know going to Mass was a fucking crime now! I sure as fuck don't have to answer to ye how I spend my time.”

Church.

“Ye went to confession,” Murphy says dumbly. “Ye could've waited, we could've-”

“I didn't say that.” Connor winces and shrugs out of his jacket, and Murphy stares at his back, stomach in knots over the tension he radiates without turning back to face him.

“Ye were praying,” Murphy says. “Again.”

“Like I said, it's not a fucking crime.”

Something tingles in the back of his mind, a thought he can't quite catch. There's got to be something. Connor was in church, he always fucking prays now, so it's no surprise. He went to—pray.

To fucking pray.

“When's the last time ye went to confession?”

Connor's fingers slip on the bag, crinkling the paper. “That's a fucking private question, Murph.”

That's it. This is it, he almost got him. “When?” Nothing. “Tell me.”

“I don't have to tell ye shit.” Connor finally turns, glaring at him. Murphy glares right back until it feels real, suddenly, and nothing about this is supposed to be real. Connor is supposed to snap at him, then roll his eyes or shove him away if he's really pissed. At most, he's supposed to try to land a hit so they can brawl it out, and then it's fine again.

They don't fight for real.

“Will ye tell me one thing?” Murphy asks, deliberately taking a step back. “If it's that bad- If yer problem is bad enough ye don't want to talk to me about it - fucking fine, but tell me if it's something I should be aware of, in terms of preparation.”

Guns, ammo, gloves, silencers.

Connor looks at him, looks and looks until the anger leaves his face, making room for something Murphy hasn't seen in ages. He looks sad, though that's an understatement. He's devastated. “Fuck,” Connor presses out, shielding his eyes.

“That's- What?” Murphy blinks. “We don't have to talk about it, I just want to know, is all.”

“Fuck,” Connor says again, breathing hard as he lowers his hand and steps right into his space. “There's nothing putting us in danger. I swear it, Murph. I wouldn't, I would never.”

This is—he doesn't know what this is.

Connor isn't like this, ever, fucking unhinged or whatever his problem is. He doesn't want this, any of it. “Okay,” Murphy says for the lack of anything else and raises his hand to squeeze Connor's shoulder. It connects with air as Connor twitches back, eyes focused somewhere on his shoulder.

Murphy drops his hand again, feeling as he does in the mornings now; dread in his insides, cold and heavy. It's too much. There is no answer and he doesn't know which question to ask to get it. Murphy swallows and redirects his focus on the pastries, filling their plates to give Connor time to get it together.

They manage.

Over the course of the day, it gets easier, and then it gets even easier when they're outside, driving the streets toward the brothel and settling in to wait for the man from the night before.

He doesn't show up, but at least they're not stuck in the house in the meantime, though the dull wait gives Murphy enough time to get lost inside his own head, thoughts running in circles while Connor sits beside him, eyes glued to the other side of the street.

There will have to come a time when he asks again, but it can't be now. It can't be tomorrow either, anytime soon for that matter, but one of these days, he will have to ask.

If the situation doesn't resolve itself beforehand.

Looking at Connor, at his haunted face and his fingers twitching up to his rosary, Murphy doesn't think it will.


	3. Chapter 3

_Ye weren't supposed to know._

Murphy glances at the open door and listens to where Connor shifts on the couch. His brother is always awake now even though _he's_ the one who keeps waking up with nightmares, and that can't be good or healthy or anything else positive, but he can't ask Connor about it either lest they end up fighting again—about something he can't even name.

Murphy huffs, gets up, and pads into the living room.

The sun isn't fully up yet, but his eyes find Connor's rosary nonetheless, drifting over like a fucking beacon is pulling him in. The cross moves on his chest, slowly rising and falling with his steady breaths. With his arm stretched out over the armrest, Connor looks perfectly lazy. On a normal day, this would be the picture of him lounging about, sleepy and content. He'd say 'Good Morning', maybe kick his shin, ask for a smoke.

Instead, the muscles in his abdomen are pulled tight and his eyes are dark with something Murphy has no idea how to begin to unravel.

“See something interesting?” Connor asks, face flushed from sleep where he peeks up from behind his arm. He flexes his fingers, drawing his attention.

“Morning,” Murphy says because the headlock was the last time Connor touched him and he's keeping track without meaning to, and that he can't say. “Just thought,” he says, scrambling to come up with something to follow it up. “We should check out that guy with the weapons before we stake out the brothel again.”

Connor sits up. “Sounds like a plan,” he says, standing and stretching with a groan “Ye can have the first shower. I'll set up coffee.” The blanket falls to the floor, then his knees hit the carpet and his eyes fall shut, and Murphy stares, speechless.

The handful of times they've prayed right after waking up involved either the sickness of the other or their Ma. Except for the insistent wish to live after Rocco died, that level of devotion never belonged to them, it's not part of them, never was—

Connor stops to look up, filling his head with the words of the dream until he resumes praying and takes the words away again, letting in the sparse traffic, the chirping birds, his rumbling stomach. Murphy stands for a moment longer, unsure whether to be disappointed or glad about not hearing the cursed words, then he wanders off.

He isn't good on his own. He needs to talk this through.

*

He gets restless with the idea, bloody well overcome by an internal debate about opening up to someone, but there are only a handful of people he's familiar enough with in the first place and even fewer of them he could straight up ask—with them being watched by the FBI.

“Yer good?”

They're in the car and Murphy wants to laugh. Here he sits, running his mind tired thinking up solutions to bring Connor back out of whatever he got himself into while Connor worries about _him_. “Aye,” he says. “Let's get it over with.”

They stock up on ammo and fiddle with the guns without the intention to actually buy one. The dealer is nice enough, obviously instructed by Duffy or Eunice or someone; he gives them a sound discount while thanking them for their good work.

Murphy wants to scoff, but he also wants the discount, so he smiles, fishes money out of his pocket, and pays.

During the ride back, the sun bathes the landscape in a soft orange light, bright enough to keep wearing sunglasses while the details of the trees alongside the streets disappear in a foggy haze. Murphy rolls down his window and lets the wind rush through his hair.

“Are ye gonna tell me?” Connor asks at length, fingers tapping against the steering wheel. Ash scatters over his legs, but he doesn't seem to notice.

“Ye want to know?”

“I wouldn't ask if I didn't.”

“I'll tell ye.” Murphy glances over, watching smoke curl around Connor's face. “If ye tell me about ye.”

Connor smiles. He takes another drag and turns up the radio.

The air rushes past, cold against his face and hopefully stealing his thoughts away.

It doesn't, of course. They're still there when they pull up at the house, hours to kill while waiting for nightfall, and Connor wanders off to occupy himself somewhere - taking a second shower, shaving, doing push-ups - he doesn't care. The opportunity is as good as it gets.

Murphy closes the door and listens until he's sure Connor isn't on the other side of it, then he picks up the phone and starts the tedious process of getting put through twice before the right person picks up.

“Hello?”

“Eunice,” he says, clearing his throat. “Hullo, Murphy here.”

A door bangs shut. “What happened?”

“Nothing happened.”

She huffs. “Quit bullshitting me. Where's that brother of yours?”

That's the fucking question. He's somewhere else, in his head at least. “Dunno,” Murphy mutters. “Around somewhere, I guess.”

“He doesn't know you called me,” Eunice states, possibly with a raised eyebrow. “What are you playing at, MacManus?”

Murphy coughs. “Nothing?”

“I'm just teasing you,” she says, then her tone turns gentle. “There's a reason you called, I presume?”

The door is still closed. It's quiet, both in the house and on the other end of the line. “Something's going on and I can't get behind it,” Murphy says. He craves a smoke and he can't leave to get one, so he fiddles with the hem of his shirt instead, feeling mightily stupid. “I thought it would help to talk it through, ye know.”

“And what would you want to tell me?” she asks, calm and gentle, making the corners of his mouth curl down.

“Dunno, I just can't get to him. I can't get through, I just-” Murphy huffs. “The problem is that I don't know how- Fucking- All right, never mind.”

“I see,” Eunice says. “Your birthday is coming up, right? Yes, I think it is. What if I come by and we have ourselves a nice little party? How's that sound?”

Like the best thing he's heard in a while. “Don't think ye should, it's not safe enough.”

“Sweet of you. I don't think I'll manage to persuade Paul to come along, but I'll try.” There's some commotion on her end of the line, then a rude bark. “I have to get going,” she says. “Things to do, things to plan, you know how it goes. Send Connor my best, I'll see you in a couple of days.”

“Aye, all right.” Murphy hangs up, pleased and a bit ashamed about reaching out to someone after all, enough so he doesn't tell Connor about it until they're observing the brothel again.

“Eunice is coming by soon.”

“Is she?” Connor glances over and away again. “When did that happen?”

“Earlier. We spoke on the phone.”

“Ye called her?”

Murphy pauses. “Yeah, I called her.”

“Why didn't ye tell me?” Connor asks, frown visible even though he's still facing the other side of the street.

“I'm telling ye now,” Murphy mutters. “She's coming for our birthday.”

Connor frowns again, this time at him. “That's sweet of her. Guess it's safe enough then, wouldn't want her to get in trouble just for us, no?” He smiles, weirdly. “She's an actual lady, isn't she?”

Smoke burns in his nose even though no one smoked in forever. “Yer gonna try to tap that?” Murphy asks, “Cause let me tell ye, I won't be the one stitching ye back together when ye try one of yer stupid moves.” That's not what he wanted to say and he _knows_ Eunice is being looked for, he does, he just forgot for a moment there and—

“Don't be weird,” Connor says. “'m not tapping anything.”

It's an outright lie, Connor fucked himself through half of Boston, fucking Christ.

_Hail Mary, full of grace. The Lord is with thee. Blessed art though-_

He's saved from making up a reason for his insanity by a sudden noise outside.

They turn to stare at the man they've been waiting for—and his car, which made intimate contact with the curb. Murphy whoops, quiet, and grins because the guy makes such a ruckus, it's almost too easy to track his movements.

“I'm gonna follow him, see what I can see,” Connor says.

Murphy nods, confirming his gun is still in place. “I'll watch the car,” he says, then they part with a nod. Preparing for a long wait, he turns the radio off and lights a smoke, idly watching the comings and goings of the various customers. They look ungood, unclean. It's simply not right, the entire trade, but the sin isn't so great they could march in there and set it right, at least not in good conscience.

He's brought out of his thoughts by Connor leaving the brothel before his smoke is even done.

He climbs back in and waggles his eyebrows. “Backroom, duffle bags, at least three guns.”

Murphy grins, easing back in his seat. “Follow him?”

They do, when the man finally leaves—though he doesn't fancy going home yet. He drives to a sleazy bar, marches in, and comes back out within minutes, a bag clutched in his hand. Three more stops to the like and they've seen enough; he's an enforcer, or maybe he's even the man himself. The short time it takes him to collect whatever it is he collects - money, probably - means these people are scared enough they're not even trying to put up a fight despite the fact that he travels without one of the mountain-like thugs people like him usually take along.

“Fuck me,” Connor mutters as the man jogs up the steps to the apartment above the bakery. “That's a whole new level of evil.”

Murphy hums, tired of the routine and knowing they have to follow him until it's clear where he takes his goods.

“All right?”

“Just bored.” Murphy shrugs, head rolling against the seat. “And wondering how much he's even gonna get out of a bloody bakery. Can't imagine it's much.”

Connor sighs. “Which means he's probably out and about every few days.”

By the time the guy decides to call it a night, Murphy's eyelids are drooping and he barely manages to scribble down the address when Connor pesters him to do it. The man disappears into a warehouse, walking in and out a few times to carry all of his bloody bags inside. “Good riddance if we get him,” he mumbles, yawning as Connor turns the car around.

Back at the house, Murphy checks his gun despite not having fired it. In the background, the TV gifts them with yet another shark movie, and Connor looks engrossed, arse planted on the armchair like he's never going to move again. Murphy trudges about, fiddling with his bag, smoking too much, stalling without a fucking reason until Connor glances at him so frequently Murphy feels forced to glare at him.

“Aren't ye tired?” Connor asks, eyebrows raised and body melting into the cushions.

“Why?”

“Ye've been yawning for hours. It's annoying.”

Murphy flips him off and plops down on the couch, eyeing his brother. Sprawled in the armchair, he looks actually comfortable. More comfortable than he felt during the first night. It's weird, they're the same height.

“Don't want to sleep?” Connor's voice is soft, and Murphy wants to look away.

“Do ye want to take the bed tonight?” he asks to buy more time, bloody useless. The dream will come no matter what, he can't avoid sleeping forever. It's routine: falling asleep - nightmare - waking up. Rinse and fucking repeat.

“Are ye offering?”

“I'm offering,” Murphy says, eyes on Connor's smile. It's a nice one, and even though they haven't turned on the light, the harsh gleam of the TV flickers over Connor's face and Murphy thinks he sees it reaching up to his eyes.

Would be nice.

“All right, then I'm off.”

“Night,” Murphy says, allowing himself to sigh a bit too long when Connor disappears into the bedroom. Then he gets it together, changes out of his clothes, and lies down.

Through the open door, he hears the quiet mumbling of Connor's prayer, familiar and comforting as his smell on the couch. It's not new, but it's strange in its closeness anyway; they've always slept in their own beds, never switching up. It confuses his mind to think Connor is close instead of in another room, and the thought keeps him awake for longer than he likes even though he fucking stalled before.

*

_Ye weren't supposed to know._

The force is strong enough Murphy barely manages to stay on the couch, goosebumps all over his skin and sweat tickling on his forehead. “Fuck,” he says, but it's their birthday and it's not enough. “Fucking shit,” he adds, somewhat more pleased, and rolls on his back to stare at the ceiling.

If the nightmare is supposed to be a sign, he's too fucking stupid to get it and he can't _make_ Connor tell him. The Lord has to know that because He thought it pleasing to make Connor stubborn as a fucking mule.

“Mornin',” Connor says from the doorway. “Forgot to turn up the heat.” He shivers and wanders off in nothing more than his briefs and his rosary, a symbol of faith that's beginning to bloody haunt him. It's supposed to be a reassurance of faith, but there's nothing reassuring about Connor not being able to take it off.

Maybe he's in the process of becoming a fanatic.

Something rattles. “Should be working now,” Connor says in passing, then he's gone again.

Murphy buries his face in the pillow and huffs as Connor's smell floods his nose again. It makes sense as it made sense the last two nights - Connor slept on the couch for several days, it's natural that it would smell like him. Still, his mind decides to draw the same conclusion as it did before, making him believe Connor lurks about somewhere, warm and sleepy.

Murphy stays where he is, breathing in through his nose and out of his mouth, letting himself be washed away with it all; the dust dancing in the sun, the returning warmth, the coziness.

The smell, somewhat heady.

“Get yer arse out of bed,” Connor orders. “We need to clean up before Eunice comes or she'll think we were raised in a fucking barn.”

It's their birthday and he's being harassed.

Murphy pulls the blanket over his head in the hope it will bring Connor back to hassle him like he used to; pulling off the blanket and leaving him cold, baiting him with coffee, flipping his toes.

Today, he gets another unfriendly call.

“Happy birthday to ye too,” he yells, then he gets up and shuffles to the bathroom. The door slams shut in front of his face. “Christ,” he mutters, crossing himself as he follows the smell of coffee into the kitchen.

By the time Connor joins him with his wet hair sticking up in every possible direction, he's over feeling sorry for himself, but only just.

“Happy birthday, Murph,” Connor says, and it sounds a bit like an apology, bringing out an immediate itch in him to connect somehow, to ruffle Connor's hair or bump their shoulders. To fucking hug, even. “Toast?”

Murphy nods and lights a smoke, watching on as Connor bustles about, rummaging for jam and butter in a shirt that's almost see-through. They should buy new clothes one of these days—he could get Connor one. It would result in stopping Connor from stealing his shirts or insisting they're his in the first place.

Though, Connor wouldn't want a shirt as his birthday present.

Since forever, they've granted each other favors instead of buying presents; a tradition born out of necessity. Back when they were together from breakfast to bedtime, coming up with a present was impossible without spoiling it beforehand. Now he has a few vague ideas, but with Connor's strange mood lately, who the fuck knows if they won't blow up in his face.

A plate with toasts appears in front of him, pulling him out of his thoughts. “Thanks,” Murphy says, smiling at Connor's back. He waits until Connor sits as well, then they eat.

“Good?”

Murphy glances up, crunching on his toast, then he shrugs because it's just bloody toast, but Connor doesn't offer any more words and he feels thrown out of the loop enough he doesn't open his mouth again until they're finished, smoke curling in lazy circles and mood content. “Presents?”

Connor looks up with a grin, rare now in the way it reaches his eyes. “Aye. Shoot, what do ye want?”

Murphy waggles his eyebrows. “Ye, me, balm, massage,” he says because fuck if he forgot Connor's hands working a miracle on his thigh.

“Ye want a back rub,” Connor says. His smoke burns down to the filter, and he doesn't seem to notice even as Murphy blows smoke in his direction.

“That's right. I wouldn't be averse to _many_ back rubs either, but I don't think that's on the table.”

“It isn't.”

“Well then,” Murphy says, hiding the unexpected sting under a glare. “What do ye want?”

Connor stubs out his smoke while frowning at it like he's doing it for the first time ever. Then he picks at the crumbs on his plate, inspects the ceiling, the wall, and the table again. “Dunno.”

It's their birthday. There have to be gifts, otherwise it's just not—their birthday. It's a ritual.

Bending to catch Connor's eyes and look into that thick head of his proves futile, so Murphy stares at his profile instead. “What's that even mean? Yer so perfectly satisfied with yer life ye don't know how to improve it?”

“I'll have ye know that I'm very easy to please, thank ye very much.” Murphy titters and Connor goes on, louder, “I'm taking a rain check. There'll be something, I guess.”

“A blank check, ye mean.” Murphy laughs. “No fucking way. Who knows what ye'll come up with in that crafty brain of yers, and then I can't deny ye.”

“Fucking fine, ye think of something then.” Connor huffs, briefly glancing in his direction.

The look on his face says nothing to him.

“What?” Murphy says. “Do ye want me to get ye an actual present?”

“I want ye to _pick_ something since yer so fucking set on me deciding now.” Connor stands, scraping the chair over the linoleum, and starts to stack their plates.

Of course he does.

Of course this has to be difficult as well, he shouldn't have expected otherwise.

Murphy sighs, gnawing on his thumb as he hesitates to bring up most of his ideas. It shouldn't be this tricky, it never fucking was. “Ye don't want a massage as well?” he says eventually, shrugging when Connor scowls at him.

They don't have much. Their belongings are pretty meager, and for the purpose of the pact they made as children, no outside person can be involved. They only have each other—

“Want me to shut my gob for a day?” he asks, wary.

Connor laughs, he even turns around for it before he continues to sort the plates into the dishwasher. “Sound idea, I'll give ye that, but nah.”

The table is clean. Murphy clears his throat, lighting another smoke. “Tattoo?” There's a soft sound, a sigh maybe, something that's breathed out, not said. “I could do it, I've got the hang of it now.” Murphy glances at his arm; aequitas, faded with time before he redid the outline and brought back the shine.

“Dunno.”

“The Chi Rho,” Murphy says. “I have that down. I promise I can do it.”

“Thought this is supposed to be about me.” Connor rolls his eyes, but he looks friendly enough. “All right,” he says, sighing like he's taking on an enormous burden instead of being granted a favor. “But not now.”

“Course not, ye knob.” Something curls in his belly, warm and weird. “Just say when.”

*

They stock up on beer and whiskey, clean the house in haste, and then it's afternoon and there's a knock on the door already.

Eunice breezes in like the friendly force of nature she is, hugging them and making them blush at the same time, grown adults that they are. Murphy pretends he isn't as pleased as he is about her visit while Connor sulks at his side, face ominous enough Murphy decides to stop looking at him altogether.

“Got something for you,” she says, holding up a duffle bag. “And what does it take for a lady to get a drink around here?”

Connor is on it as Murphy considers the bag, weary about work-talk until he catches her eyes and Eunice shakes her head.

“No work,” she says. “I wouldn't invite myself to your birthday and bring work with me now, would I?”

He shrugs, a bit embarrassed, and trudges after her when she settles on the couch with the glass of whiskey Connor hands her.

“So, what's in it?” Connor asks, leering at the bag like he was indeed raised in a barn.

Murphy kicks his shin. “It was no trouble for ye to come, though?” he asks. “I mean, it's safe enough?”

She rolls her eyes, as does Connor while he pulls the zipper and opens the bag. “My brother can't take something nice without looking for the catch, obviously.”

“Shut up.”

They look in the bag.

“Ye didn't have to,” Connor says with a smile on his face that takes years off him.

“Ye really didn't.”

“Nonsense.” Eunice pushes the bag over with her foot. “The boys wanted to chip in and I didn't think to fight them off with sticks. Let them show their gratitude for all the good you're doing and stop being rude about it.”

“Yes, Ma'am.” Connor grins, and Murphy grins along as she pulls her feet up on the couch and watches them unpack the various boxes.

The presents range from a snuffle blanket and pink socks to whiskey, binoculars, skid-proof gloves, and, strangely enough, two cookbooks. Staring down at it all, Murphy's heart warms with the idea that the others thought of them, even if they just went out to buy pink socks. It lifts his spirits, making him grin and bump his shoulder against Connor—who inches away, thanking Eunice before he chugs his whiskey.

Engrossed and put out at the same time, Murphy thumbs through the books and listens with half an ear as Eunice recites Greenly's newest misadventures, and he only glances up when Connor shuffles off, stumbling over the bag and muttering about it.

Apparently, he did not keep up with Connor's intoxication level.

The bathroom door slams shut and Eunice scoots forward, glass balanced on her knee. “I see it,” she says without preamble. “Do you have any idea what it's about?”

Murphy puts the book down and takes his drink, sipping to steel his nerves even though he called her for this exact reason. “I thought I did, but it wasn't...” Trust or not, sharing the dream is too personal, too much of them. “Maybe it's the work. Or the lack of it. Maybe everything's catching up with him just now, Roc, Noah...” He shrugs, glancing in the direction of the bathroom.

It could be a fuckton of reasons, and he knows none of what he said is even close to the truth. It's something else, something he can't put his finger on.

Eunice drinks, humming without taking her eyes off him. “I can imagine it's hard for both of you,” she says slowly. “Don't hesitate to ask if there's anything I can do to help.”

“I'd need to know what the problem is before I can ask for help.” Murphy smiles to soften his words, but she smiles back readily enough, warm and somehow unrelenting.

“You've done good work already. Who's to say you can't take a break? I certainly wouldn't blame you, especially not if that's what it takes to get you back on track.”

That plan already failed. He has no heart to tell her, and he has no heart to tell her this is entirely about Connor, either. _They_ don't need to get back on track. He's on track, always was, he's the fucking track himself—he's saved by Connor stumbling back in and blinking at the room at large, eyes bloodshot and grin all over the place.

Murphy sighs and Connor keeps drinking.

Eventually, Eunice excuses herself to use their phone. It's pitch-black outside. Connor stares at the wall as a car pulls into the driveway, headlights off and looking overall shady.

“That's me.” Eunice grins, also shady.

“How did they get here so fast?”

Murphy stands. “Yer a dangerous woman,” he says, grinning. “Thank ye for coming by.”

“Aye,” Connor adds.

Murphy pulls him up by his arm, pretending he doesn't notice that Connor leans away as soon as he stands, and goes to hug her and whisper another thank you in her ear.

It didn't help, not in the slightest, but at least someone else knows now. About them. Connor. About a problem he can't name.

Somehow, that helps after all.

Taking a step back, he watches with his heart heavy as Connor hugs her as well, touching everyone who isn't him fucking freely even if he does frown while doing so. Connor always fucking frowns now, but he doesn't shake her hand from his shoulder or the other one curling around his arm. He isn't even frowning at _her_ , he's frowning back over his shoulder.

At him.

As soon as the door closes behind her, Connor stumbles off, destination unknown.

Refusing to let his bastard of a brother bring down his mood, Murphy carries their glasses into the kitchen and takes the time to load the dishwasher, half-pretending to stall because of the recurring nightmare, half-knowing it's because he doesn't want the day to end. Their birthday is supposed to be one of the good days. Tomorrow they're going back to normal business, dreadful in its dullness by now.

There's got to be more, or something else at least.

With a sigh, Murphy flops onto the couch.

There's a noise.

It comes from the bedroom, and it's not one of the noises he's good at ignoring; sounds that imply the need for privacy they never had for real. This is—different. It's forceful and quiet and not sounding like pleasure at all.

Connor's breath hitches through the dark, forcing Murphy up from the couch and through the room in a heartbeat. Abruptly lost, he stops and presses his hand against the cool door, praying he misheard, that Connor is indeed wanking, as embarrassing as that would be. Still better than the alternative, than the sound of a violent shudder, loud enough Murphy almost feels its vibrations in his own chest.

“Connor?” he whispers.

The sheets rustle.

“Connor,” Murphy says, back tight with tension. He opens the door, blinking through the dark.

“Leave me be.”

Murphy stands, staring until his eyes adjust, until he's able to take a hesitant step into the room and Connor rushes out a stuttering breath. He's on his side, face pressed into the pillow and hands twisted into the blanket. The position leaves his back bare, giving him a weirdly vulnerable look even though it's so dark, Murphy barely sees more than the vague shape of him.

With the curtains drawn, not even the moon gives enough light to make sense of the look on Connor's face.

“Fucking go, Murph.”

“But-”

“Why don't ye fucking leave?” Connor presses out, a mix between a growl and a hiss, forcing Murphy to take another step forward just as something breaks loose in Connor. He curls into himself with a choked sound and from one moment to the next, he's—crying. The whole deal, not shedding a tear or two, painful and desperate like he's never seen him, not even in Connor's worst times.

“Please, Murph.”

His eyes burn, heart pounding in his throat.

He wants to reach out, to cover Connor's fists, to draw up the blanket so Connor doesn't lie as bare as he does, but he doesn't dare. He steps closer instead and kneels in front of the bed, hands hovering. “Tell me what to do.” There's nothing. He says it again, whispering it, gripping Connor's shoulder, the skin clammy under his palm.

“Don't- Don't.” Connor rolls forward, trapping his hand under his body in a wave of whiskey and stale smoke. He sobs again, shaking the bed with it.

Murphy clambers on the bed and pulls at Connor even as he goes rigid. “Hush,” he says, fighting for a moment, both with Connor until he's pressed against his chest and with his own voice because he has no idea where to _start_. His shirt is already damp with tears and snot and he's making it worse instead of better, and he has no reference for how to go on. “As soon as yer okay again, we're gonna do whatever helps,” he says, nodding senselessly as Connor shakes against him. “Ye've got to tell me, is all. What ye need. Aye? It's gonna to be fine.”

“I can't stop,” Connor croaks, and Murphy tightens his grip, swallowing to keep in control of his own fucking feelings.

This isn't about him, none of it, but it's shy of overwhelming nonetheless.

“Aye, ye can,” Murphy says, nodding again, brushing against Connor's hair.

His face is hidden at this angle, he's only able to see Connor's shoulder and the tattoo on his neck, visible even in the dark, strangely compelling and just a few inches from his fingers. Murphy draws his thumb over the picture, feeling for the edges like he always does until Connor takes a huge breath and scoots back right to the edge of the bed.

There's no more room to flee. The look on his face says he's about to lose it even more, and there's no fucking room for more, not today and not on any other day, not on the bed and not fucking—emotionally.

This is the line, they've fucking hit it.

“Tell me,” Murphy says. Connor bares his teeth, still on his side, still shaking, still radiating stress and sweating in the fucking cold. “Tell me, Connor. Tell me.”

“Nothing to tell,” Connor croaks as if his nose isn't clogged and his movements aren't dulled by whiskey, and suddenly he tenses all over, twitching in his direction like he wants to attack him.

“How can I help if I don't know what it's about?” Murphy hisses, then he watches in horror as Connor curls forward with a sound he doesn't want to know about. Carefully, Murphy reaches out and pulls Connor back in until his face is buried in Connor's hair and Connor clenches his fingers in his shirt, almost strangling him with the force. “Okay,” Murphy says. “Just- Okay.”

He holds on.

Connor claws at him, friendly, and he cries, gently, until the violent shaking subsides and the awful sobs quiet down to occasional hiccups. He lies boneless and it's better, so much better, and it's still nowhere near familiar territory.

“Shit,” Connor rasps.

“Tell me.” He's straightaway insisting and he shouldn't, but there's no way around it. He has to know, Connor has to tell him so he can ensure it won't ever happen again, so he can lay fucking waste to whatever hurt Connor this way.

“I won't,” Connor says. “What did ye say to Eunice? When she left,” he adds, quieter, slower like he doesn't want to know.

Murphy frowns, mind momentarily blank. “I thanked her for coming,” he says, half-lying. “Don't deflect now.”

“Shut up or leave.”

He should. Connor begged him to, after all.

But he hasn't let go of his shirt and he's still pressed against him.

Murphy rolls on his back and Connor follows like a warm mass of glue, his head right under Murphy's chin, heavy as fuck. “Okay,” Murphy says again. They find a reasonably comfortable position, and it's awkward until it's not.

“Ye weren't supposed to know,” Connor says softly.

Murphy stares at the ceiling and waits for the wave to hit him and the anger to rise and his fists to clench, and nothing happens. He breathes out, free.

For Connor to seek comfort like this—he's out of it. He has to be, he'd never behave like this if he weren't, and the problem - the _problem_ \- will still be there in the morning.

Murphy fumbles for the blanket and covers them up. With Connor's weight on him, he can't move as freely as he would like to and he's still wearing his jeans and he didn't brush his teeth yet.

It's uncomfortable.

Peace comes over him like it hasn't since forever, making him warm all over, too warm with Connor radiating heat and the blanket over them and the bed too small. It should take ages to fall asleep, but he can already feel it coming.

Right before it happens, he resets the timer in his head.

Days since Connor tolerated his touch: zero.

Days since Connor touched him on his own: zero.

*

Like the bastard waited for it, Connor is out of bed the second he opens his eyes. Murphy blinks, only catching a glimpse of Connor speeding through the door like he's on fire while trying to process waking up _without the nightmare_.

Now.

Today, with a gross fucking taste in his mouth and the circulation in his legs cut off from the bloody jeans and some kind of—dent on his arm. On this day, the nightmare did not come.

Murphy fumbles for the thing on his arm, mind slow with sleep and pounding with a headache. The spot is on his upper arm, next to the scar, skin wrinkled and numb from the iron. He fingers it, first absentmindedly and then with more focus.

It's where the mattress is still warm from Connor's body, where he was crowded against him, possibly lying on said fucking arm—Connor didn't take it off. His rosary. Connor slept pressed against him and the beads of his fucking rosary left an imprint on his arm.

“For fuck's sake,” Murphy says gently, and then he shoves the thought aside in favor of having a mild anxiety attack about the night before.

If having fled as soon as he woke up is anything to go by, Connor is mortified. He can't just go and ask him what it was about.

But Connor clung to him without having to, so maybe, if he manages to reassure his brother that all is well, Connor will open up further and tell him about it. Maybe after that, he'll tell him about the dream, too. About the lying.

Murphy snorts.

Aye, that's exactly what's going to happen. Connor will open up to him after adamantly refusing to do so while crying in a drunken stupor.

It's decided: he will give Connor the day to address this train wreck of a situation, and if nothing comes forth, he'll pounce on him. Literally, if he has to.

Murphy nods to himself, listening to the faint sound of water running in the kitchen, and rolls out of bed. The way seems longer than it should be, trudging through the living room and following the smell of brewing coffee, the sounds of Connor bumping around, making enough noise to indicate he's being rather hectic.

Squaring his shoulders, Murphy walks into the kitchen and clears his throat.

Connor freezes.

“Morning,” Murphy says, voice rough and mouth, unsurprisingly, still disgusting. He pulls a face, but Connor doesn't see it.

“Mornin'.” Connor turns around, then he turns away again and focuses on the toaster like he's a caveman who never saw an electric device in his life before. “So,” he says to the toaster, then he turns around again, face flushed and eyes darting all over the place. He looks fucking shy, and Murphy's heart skips a beat. “That was rather embarrassing.”

“Wasn't,” Murphy says because it _wasn't_. Last night was a lot of things, ranging from disturbing and overwhelming to heartbreaking, but it sure as fuck wasn't embarrassing. “Dunno how ye can bustle about though, even my head feels like it's the size of a watermelon.”

Connor grins, lopsided. “'m better at pretending.”

That he is.

*

After breakfast, they drive to the warehouse and stop for two extra large coffees on the way. It's strangely comfortable now that the initial awkwardness is over and done with.

Shades on and lips parted, Connor dozes with his head against the seat, and Murphy would like to think it's because of his hangover, but the other reason seems more likely. The one indicating that Connor, once again, didn't get much sleep.

Murphy stops at a red light and glances over, unable to take his eyes off Connor and the way he holds himself. It's different from when he lay in his arms, amazing, actually, and disturbing. Shouldn't it be the other way around, shouldn't Connor have been peaceful in his arms instead of now—

Someone honks.

Murphy grunts, waves his hand at the review mirror, and rolls down the window to let in some fresh air.

It's just.

Something sits there, inside of him, and has made its home. It keeps gnawing at his insides, making him sick with worry and the need to protect and touch and know. Something that hasn't been there before, ever. He would've known.

With Connor, he always knew; his brother hadn't let him speculate about his thoughts - not that they ever sat down and had a heart-to-heart - but he knew nonetheless. What Connor thought and needed. What he needed him to do. Now there's a vast, ever-expanding hole in his chest, fucking offensive and impossible to ignore any longer. And he shouldn't ignore it anyway, he wouldn't have woken without the nightmare if it wasn't important to know Connor received the sign as well.

“Will ye quit staring,” Connor mumbles. “Creep.”

Murphy sputters, face hot, then he flips him off even though he's not sure Connor sees it and turns his eyes back on the road until they arrive at the warehouse and Connor rejoins the living and breathing people by stretching for an entire minute. While groaning.

“That's what whiskey does,” Murphy says, earning himself an unfriendly glare. “Just saying.”

“Let's get this over with, I can hear the couch calling my name.” Connor nods, looking up the surrounding buildings. “It longs for me, Murph. Can't ye hear it?”

Pulling his hoodie in place, Murphy titters. “Sounds like yer having an affair.”

“Maybe I am.”

“Yer going steady soon?” Murphy grins, bumping their shoulders—effectively ending the teasing. Apparently, cuddling is fine, but body contact for several seconds through several layers of clothing while out on the fucking street is not.

Fine.

They climb the nearby fire escape of a smaller building and settle in. It's cold up there and the wait turns out to be tedious and fucking boring, and by the end of it, Murphy's stomach is rumbling and the corners of Connor's mouth point down until he looks like a caricature, but at least they got all the information they need.

The crook they've been trailing isn't the boss of the criminal nest, he looks like he's the second in command. In addition to him, another guy lurks about, fat and slow and giving orders to two men looking like the usual street-criminals, blunt thugs sharing ten brain cells between them while looking brutal enough to be a worry if they came into hitting distance.

Nothing their guns couldn't handle.

“Guess we can get back to yer couch now,” Murphy says. It earns him a short chuckle and no other words, and then they're driving back. This time, Connor sits behind the wheel, silent as a bloody grave as Murphy gears up for their talk because obviously, he has to take matters into his own hands.

He doesn't know how to start.

The drive goes by in no time, then they're back at the house already and Murphy drags his feet, thinking it can wait until after dinner.

After dinner, he decides it can wait until they settled in front of the TV, nursing lukewarm beers and staring at whatever movie runs in the background.

When they're both lounging on various pieces of furniture and Connor starts yawning excessively, Murphy thinks it can wait until the next day, really, because who in their right mind would spring that kind of heavy talk onto someone who's knackered _and_ didn't get much sleep the night before?

No one. It would be inhumane.

“Murphy,” Connor says, eyes glued to the screen. “I can hear yer gears turning.”

Murphy gulps down the last of his beer, nodding at nothing in particular as Connor shoots him a nasty look.

“One question, that's it. And don't ye think I'll get up again to get ye another fucking beer.”

Murphy grips his empty bottle, unsure how to proceed. His brother will put his foot down after one question, he is a mule, he fucking knows him, and he also knows Connor thinks this is going to be about his breakdown.

His words have to be well thought-out or this will end in a disaster.

“Anytime today would be good.”

Murphy flips him off. Then he swallows, setting down the sweating bottle. “When ye have the dream, is it me who's on his knees or am I standing in front of ye and watch ye do it?”

Connor jerks, sending his smoke flying. He scrambles after it, scattering ash everywhere, and stubs it out with a shaking hand before he brushes the ash off his legs. Then he grabs his beer, raises it to his mouth, and puts it back down again without drinking. Then he sighs. “Yer in front of me.”

This is it. After all this time— “Were ye having it this whole time?”

“Suppose.” Connor shrugs. “I've been having it for a while.” He shrugs again and turns back to the TV like the conversation is over. Like he actually wants him to believe he means all his fucking shrugging.

Like Connor thinks he can't hear his voice, the roughness underneath.

“I asked ye, in the beginning, and ye pretended-”

“I didn't remember more than ye back then,” Connor cuts in. “It's nothing more than a fucking nightmare, I've got no idea why yer so hung up on it.”

“Hung up on it,” Murphy says, staring at Connor's profile. He radiates such tension, he feels the waves coming off him despite the distance between them. “Yer lying.” Murphy stands, eyes on his brother, and starts to pace. “So, what's it about?”

“How the fuck should I know?” Connor snaps, loud enough Murphy stops pacing to look, truly look at him and his pale face and huge eyes.

There are all kinds of excuses; the ghastly light from the television, the lack of sunlight on Connor's skin, Rocco's death, their changed lifestyle—he's pale and thin and his eyes don't shine anymore and he's praying all day long and last night, he broke down and sought comfort so he, his own brother, had to stay with him all fucking night.

Murphy nods, giving him one last opportunity to come clear. “Connor.”

“Jesus fucking Christ.” Connor groans, crossing himself without looking away from the screen. “Ye got yer question, now shut yer gob about it. I'm trying to watch this.”

“I've had it,” Murphy states. “I've had fucking enough, all right. Yer gonna tell me what's going on or so help me.” Nothing happens. Murphy pushes in his line of sight. “Look at me when I talk to ye!”

Connor snaps straight, pushing up from the couch with the movement. “What the fuck for, ye bastard? There's nothing to tell!”

“There is.”

“There isn't!” Connor bellows, then he stomps off toward the door.

Murphy follows at once, breathing down Connor's neck by the time he comes to a stop. “If ye think I can't see,” he hisses, quiet and harsh, watching Connor flinch, “If ye think I can't see, yer fucking thick. I see ye, Connor.”

“Murph.”

Murphy reaches out and places his hand on Connor's back, right between his shoulder blades. Connor rushes air out with a hiss and sways back against his hand without any coordination. “It's a sign,” Murphy says around the lump in his throat. It swells when Connor stays silent, and then he feels like getting mean. “Ye have to tell me, Con. Ye've got to tell me because we both got a sign. The Lord gave us a sign to show me something's wrong with ye.”

“That's what ye think? The Lord sent the message?” Connor spins around, arm swinging wildly. His elbow catches on the lamp, sending it crashing to the floor while he doesn't even blink. “Yer fucking wrong! The Lord has nothing to do with any of this!”

“What're ye saying?”

“I'm saying that whoever sent that fucking message has no business being inside my head,” Connor snaps. “Or yer head, for that matter. It's not the Lord, I don't believe it for a second.”

Without meaning to, he trapped Connor into a corner. Something dark rises in his mind, forcing him to swallow as he pushes forward. “Ye better start making sense cause all I'm hearing is that ye lied to me.”

“I'm not lying!” Connor cries, right into his face, spit and all. They breathe against each other in harsh bursts, and Murphy feels acutely overwhelmed with it all, fucking high on adrenaline. He shoves at Connor's shoulder. Then again. He herds him, mind roaring as Connor simply lets him until his back hits the bookshelf.

“I'm not lying,” Connor says again, very quiet. He's about to go off, and Murphy licks his lips.

“Ye are.”

“What yer planning to do, eh? Want me to fucking fight ye? I fucking will, and the answer will stay the same. _I'm not lying!”_

“Don't turn this around! Yer the one keeping things from me, yer the one who looks like death warmed over and yer the one who fucking cries himself to sleep-”

Connor's forehead slams against his. Murphy stumbles back, blinded by pain.

“Fucking cunt, that's what ye are,” Connor hisses. “What do ye want me to do? Apologize? Shall I get on my fucking knees and apologize to ye?”

They stare at each other.

“Like ye do in the dream?” Murphy asks, and all the anger disappears in a rush, leaving the room hot and stuffy and his eyes burning, not only from the pain. He cradles his head anyway, pretending he doesn't see Connor's hand twitching up like he wants to check if he's injured. On a normal day, after a normal fight, he would.

This isn't the first time, they escalate more often than not, but usually, their fights end afterward.

Nothing's solved now.

The lost anger leaves a hole in his chest that fills with sadness so quickly, it almost numbs his senses. They're supposed to go on a job tomorrow, how the fuck are they supposed to work together like this? “We need to trust each other.”

“We do,” Connor says, and Murphy averts his eyes in shame of the low blow he plans to deal out, the last tactic in his reserve to make Connor see how serious this is.

“How can I trust ye if yer lying to me?”

The TV runs in the background, filling the room with tinny sounds as Connor pulls himself together, muscles coiled tight. He steps up to him, closer than Murphy anticipated. “I'm not lying,” Connor says again. He raises his hands and cradles his head, thumb on his temple. “I'm sorry, Murph, I am. If I could, I would make it so none of this happened.”

Murphy waits, heart in his throat. “But?” he prompts at length, voice small as he realizes the full extent of what he misses out on nowadays; a simple touch, a thoughtless connection he never thought he'd have to be without.

“But I won't tell ye.”

Murphy sways forward, pressing his forehead against Connor's.

“I will never tell ye if I can help it. That doesn't mean I'm lying, Murph. It's just something I won't share.” He's so close and warm, smelling of beer and smokes, familiar in a way Murphy didn't know he needed so fucking much before he was deprived of it.

“All right,” he whispers, lying, and Connor will know he is. He wraps his hand around Connor's, pressing them tighter against his face so he won't tell him that according to the dream, Connor _will_ tell him one day. 'Weren't' supposed to know means it's in the past, and the barrier between the real Connor and the dream-Connor is brittle already. It won't be long.

They stay in place until Connor steps back with a small smile on his face, eyes clear and kind and haunted, and just to see the smile a little while longer, Murphy nods to reassure him.

It can't be long.


	4. Chapter 4

Bullets counted and guns loaded, they sit around until the small morning mass crowd leaves and they're free to cross the small distance to the church. Inside, Murphy prays the entire Rosary as well as a quick prayer for protection, Connor's eyes burning a hole in his back until they go back to a day full of waiting.

The tension should rise again like it should rise later, several hours of driving to the warehouse with nothing to say to each other—but it doesn't. He feels more relaxed than he felt in a while with the burden of not knowing lifted by Connor admitting he does, in fact, hide something.

“We put all of that aside for now, aye?” Connor says a few minutes out from their destination, fingers tight around the steering wheel.

Murphy looks over, watching him take a turn while a dull headache pounds behind his eyes. “Yer worried?” he asks quietly, slipping his gloves into place to keep his hands busy. “I'm not. I know I said—but that was just-”

“Ye being an arsehole,” Connor finishes. He parks the car two blocks from the warehouse and takes off his shades. “I never worry about ye in that regard. And I want ye to do the same.”

“Is that a command? An order?”

Connor flips him off.

Grinning, Murphy checks his gun one last time. “I wouldn't even know how not to,” he says as he sees Connor doing the same. He leaves the rest unsaid, though he suspects Connor understood just fine.

“When we get back, we can fight some more,” Connor says. “If that's what ye want.”

“It's really not.” Murphy huffs. “But this here has nothing to do with it. We're fine here.”

“Aye.”

They get out of the car and cross the parking lot of an abandoned factory. Connor drags behind, squinting against the low hanging sun with a smoke hanging from his lips. He looks so much like he belongs in a movie, Murphy wouldn't be surprised if Connor is indeed trying to reenact a scene from one of the various action flicks he loves so fiercely.

He slows until Connor is within arm's reach, then he steals his smoke.

“Rude.”

Murphy grins around the damp filter, somewhat smug, and rounds the corner. His leg explodes. It's on fire. It's burning and he can't hear—he loses his footing. His knees hit the asphalt and Connor yanks at him, pulling him back, pulling so hard his senses snap back into place with a rush.

Sharp sounds of gunfire, someone yells, _Connor_ yells—Connor bellows an order.

“Murph!”

Someone screams.

“Are ye hit? Stay the fuck down, what are ye _doing_?”

His leg won't support his weight. Murphy lifts his head and peeks around the corner. There's a shape hiding behind an open door, then Connor pushes in his line of sight, blocking his view—kicking back at him.

“What-”

“Back!” Connor bellows, turning away and firing in quick succession. Two guns, two hands, and he doesn't turn around to look at him. “Murph, I swear to God, answer me!”

“Cunt shot me,” Murphy forces out. He scrambles for purchase until he finds a ledge on the wall and pulls himself up on his not-burning leg.

“Stay down!”

He shoulders Connor out of the way, but he can't shake Connor's hand off his shoulder. It doesn't matter. He raises his arms and empties his guns through the door until nothing moves any longer and the silence rings in his ears.

Connor turns his frantic look on him, eyes roaming all over, catching on his leg. “How bad?”

Blood pools on the ground, around his shoe. “Don't think it's good,” Murphy offers, clenching his teeth when speaking hurts even though it didn't before, with the bullets still flying.

“All right.” Connor quickly looks around before he grips his arm. “Let's get ye back to the car before the rest of them come out from-”

“Wherever the fuck they're _hiding_!” Murphy hollers.

Connor yanks him back around the corner. “Shut the fuck up,” he hisses, pulling his arm over his shoulder and starting to move.

Putting weight on his leg isn't a good idea, Murphy finds. It's an electric shock, something not worth repeating. He stumbles, doubling over, and his gun clatters to the ground. The other is under his belt again, somehow, so Murphy moves to sit down, just for a while.

“Don't do that, come on.” Connor picks up the fallen gun and shoves it in his own jeans. “ _Murphy_. Come on, fucking pull yerself up!”

He tries, he does, but he's already breathless with pain from straining his leg the slightest bit. “Fucking shit,” Murphy breathes, clamping down on Connor's shoulder until it must hurt even through his many layers of clothing. “I don't remember that it felt this bad before.”

“Okay.” Connor bends, groaning with the effort to get him in a straight position. Then they're walking. Or Connor walks, managing for both of them. “Okay,” he mumbles, then again, all the way back to the parking lot. Connor leans him against the side of the green car, hideously green, really, he doesn't remember it being green before—Murphy inspects his hands.

They're shaking. They didn't before. When he pulled the trigger over and over.

“Come on.”

By the time Murphy lets himself fall onto the backseat, he has to blink sweat out of his eyes.

It's a miracle they don't end up wrapped around a fucking tree, with the gas pushed through and Connor talking and turning to look at him at least once a minute. Murphy listens at first, but it turns out to be the same sentence again and again, some sort of reassurance he has no brainpower left to focus on. He very decidedly doesn't remember the last gunshot hurting like this.

“I don't remember the last gunshot hurting like this,” he tells his brother, but there's no reply, so he observes the way his jeans are staining. The blood stopped spilling, drying in a brownish tone now. Sort of ugly, but a good sign, and it also drowns out his earlier headache.

“Murph?”

On the other hand, he can't move his foot. Maybe it's not a good sign after all.

“Murphy!”

Murphy jerks up, alert.

“Stay where ye are now, don't move. We're almost there, all right? We're almost there.”

It makes no difference. 'There' means the safe house and he won't be magically better once they arrive. It's simply elsewhere, somewhere that is not the car. Which is, by now, also stained with blood. “We've got to get rid of the car,” he tells Connor, and he thinks he hears a hitched breath, but maybe it's the motor. It tends to make weird noises when it's driven too fast.

Murphy floats, blinking at the seat in front of him.

It's rather nice, and when he manages to put his leg on the seat, it stops pulsing as fiercely as it did before, what a fucking relief, but it still feels bigger than it should. A bit like someone swapped it for the leg of an elephant and sewed it back on without any expertise.

Something pulls at him.

Murphy protests, kicking Connor's arm as he yanks at his good leg. He wins, of course he does—Connor yanks at him from the other side, hands shoved under his armpits. His voice is shrill, drilling a bloody hole in his brain.

“Will ye calm down,” Murphy says, annoyed. Put out. _Pissed off_ , but then it comes out as a shallow murmur and that makes him uneasy enough to stop struggling. Not uneasy enough to help, though, because he finds, rather suddenly, that he doesn't want to go inside. It's okay here. It's nice.

“I'll fucking carry ye if yer being like that,” Connor croaks. “We've got to get inside and- Murph. Murphy, no ye can't stay here. Come on. Yeah, come on.”

Years later, Murphy blinks at something other than the seat; it's the ceiling, and then his back hits the mattress of the bed Connor sleeps on now. Where he cried.

“No one cares, Murph. Ye can cry if ye want. All right? Okay, all right.”

“No,” Murphy says. That's all wrong. Connor cried. In here, on their birthday. Nobody's crying now.

Right?

He can't ask because Connor won't shut his gob for a single second, and then he yanks at his _belt_ andMurphy has to kick him again to stop him from ever touching his pants again. The explanation why it's too painful is ready on his tongue, but Connor isn't even in the room anymore, and then he is, suddenly, and something pokes at his thigh.

Scissors. Connor is cutting off the leg of his jeans.

“I liked those jeans.”

His brother is apparently deaf, and his hands aren't moving anymore either. “Okay,” Connor says. His head comes into view, hovering. “Don't move,” he says—whispers. “I'll be back in a second, just don't move.”

That wasn't on his agenda anyway.

Connor rushes outside, followed by various noises. Something clatters in the bathroom, then he talks and that can't be good, when he's outright talking to himself and in such an urgent voice even—he's shouting.

“There is _nothing_!” Connor yells. “One of ye fuckers better get in the fucking car right now or I'll fucking find ye, I swear to God!”

“Phone,” Murphy tells the room. That makes sense. He lifts his head and stares down. It takes a few seconds for his brain to make sense of the image; the swollen mass is supposed to be his calf, he guesses. “Not a good sign,” he says and flops back on the bed. The coat is bunched up under his back, uncomfortable and annoying, and he doesn't dare move.

Somewhen, Connor bursts into the room again, pills in hand. Murphy swallows them dutifully, but Connor pours the water down his throat so quickly, he retches most of them back up again. Which is something Connor doesn't seem to notice or care about, then his head comes back up, face even paler than before, and Murphy forgets what words are.

“This- Murph. I'll be quick,” Connor whispers.

A belt is in his mouth. Connor makes him hold onto it with both of his hands—which doesn't make sense since it holds on its own, clamped between his teeth. Connor insists. Then he sits down on his good leg with all of his weight and leans toward the elephant leg.

Murphy loses his mind for a while.

*

He comes to with stale breath washing over his face and something dragging over his skin, warm and wet.

“I can't lose ye,” Connor says, though it's not louder than a breath. Murphy only knows because it's said against his cheek, his eyes. It's quiet and constant, a prayer, repeated like Connor wants the words to sink in under his skin.

Murphy opens his eyes. “Ow,” he says, voice rough like he's been screaming. He wouldn't, would he—he pants, he doesn't remember starting to pant.

“I'm so sorry,” Connor whispers, sobbing once like he did during those awful minutes. Then he closes his lips and peppers him with kisses, and it's nothing like those awful minutes at all.

For one, he didn't fucking hurt then. “How bad?” Murphy croaks so he doesn't have to admit this is rather nice, if unexpected. Definitely filling up the void that made him twitchy with the lack of body contact. Connor seems so set on his task, he doesn't answer, and Murphy refuses to move his leg, just in case. “Connor, how bad?”

“I dug it out.” Connor inches away until Murphy can see his face, and then he wishes he couldn't; Connor looks fucking miserable, streaks of tears on his cheeks and hands red.

Hands that cradled his face just a moment ago.

“I think- I think I got it all,” Connor says. “I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Murph. I'm sorry- I couldn't, but it had to come out.” He takes a stuttering breath, rushing it out over his face, and Murphy loses his train of thought.

“But,” he starts.

“It's bleeding now and I think- Aye, I think we should let it. They'll come soon anyway and bring some—some medication for ye. It's going to be better then.”

It takes most of his concentration, but Murphy manages to lift his arm and pull Connor closer. “Sounds good,” he says. “I'll sleep now.” Connor protests, he thinks, but he doesn't have enough energy left to focus on it, and then Connor's weight pulls off and Murphy tries to hold on, but he isn't strong enough for that either.

*

He wakes with a knife slicing through whatever is left of his leg. Connor is on him, apologizing, spluttering about bleeding and bandages and—his coat.

“'m thirsty.”

“Aye,” Connor cries, eyes huge. Then he holds out a glass of water as if it was within reach all the while. In the palm of his other hand sits something white, very promising. “Against the pain,” he says, smiling like a crazy person.

He could not care less. The pills are nice and shiny, and this time, Connor lets him drink on his own, only holding onto the glass when Murphy proves too fucking weak to hold it in his bloody useless shaking hand. When he has enough, Murphy turns his face away. “I don't know,” he says because he doesn't know what else to say. “I just don't know.”

“Okay.” Connor sits, smiling with his mouth and not with his eyes. It's not a good look, so Murphy glances at his leg instead, at his cut-up jeans. At the blood, everywhere. Red towels, blood-soaked towels, blood-soaked covers and pants and—

“It's down to a trickle,” Connor says, drawing his gaze. “Smecker said it had to come out, couldn't stay in there with the way it looked and...” He bites his lip, and Murphy finds himself frowning.

“Smecker was here?”

“He wasn't, he- I called them. He made me describe it and he has some knowledge about this kind of stuff, I guess? Cause he was quick to answer. Once I got him on the line.” Connor shrugs and won't look at him any longer.

“Sounds reasonable,” Murphy says, and then he's exhausted and sinks back into the pillow. “Feels thinner, at least.”

Connor nods, fast. He looks young somehow, kneeling next to him on the bed, still gripping that glass of water. “It does, it does. It's good. That's how it's- I guess that's how it's supposed to be.”

“No iron?”

“ _No_ ,” Connor stresses, then he lowers his voice again. “No iron. It all came out after—ye know, after I took the bullet out. It was like a stream and I think- fucking Christ.” He crosses himself and his hand stays on his forehead, after. “It's good. That it doesn't—that it's down to a trickle.”

“Connor.” He's tired and his leg hurts - which has to be a good sign at fucking last, since before, it just felt elephant-y - and he's dizzy, both from the blood loss and the painkillers, and Connor won't shut up.

“Ye asked,” Connor mutters, briefly glaring down at him. Some color comes back to his cheeks. “Sorry. Let's just- Murph.” He fingers his coat. “Let's get ye out of this before yer back under, aye?”

It's one of the best ideas Connor had since forever.

“Later.” Murphy swats at his hands—he tries to, but his coordination is off, so he sort of swats at Connor's knee instead, tired and warm. Connor's hand is on his chest, first shoving and then simply resting, comfortable enough Murphy closes his eyes again.

*

His leg is on fire and it's still dark, not even fucking morning yet, and he's had enough. “Stop,” he says before he knows what's happening. A hand clamps down on his knee, pinning him to the mattress with the bloody towels and the lumpy coat, and he has no strength to fight it. “Stop,” he pleads, and then he's being hushed and tears fill his eyes and he's angry at Connor _and_ himself because he's been fucking here before and it wasn't like this, he ironed the last bullet wound, what the fuck happened—

“Done, I'm done.” Connor scrambles around the bed and appears in his view, and Murphy stops being angry. “Bandage's on, I'm not touching it anymore.” Connor holds up his hands as if to prove it before he stares at them in horror.

They're all fucking bloody.

“I hate this,” Murphy says, pulling a face when it comes out too small and pulling another face when Connor wipes his hands on his sweater like he has no sense of trying to stay clean even while he's in the process of pulling at his fucking coat again. It's all a lie. A show. A _scheme_.

“Let's take these off now, aye?” Connor says, smiling all the way up to his eyes this time. It's pretty in an abstract way, and much better to focus on than thinking about moving because he rather wouldn't.

The question seemed to be rhetorical. Connor pulls him upright and squeezes behind him, and Murphy isn't too proud to admit being overall unhelpful.

His coat comes off.

Murphy leans back against Connor's chest, gently swayed by his breathing, and lets himself be undressed. Both his turtleneck and shirt get peeled off him, leaving him sweaty and cold and disgusting, but before he can complain, Connor pulls a fresh shirt over his head and lowers him back on the bed.

The whole thing feels like it didn't take more than a minute and that is probably wrong.

Still.

“Just one more,” Connor says, fingers hovering over the buttons of his jeans. His smile is gone.

“I need a break,” Murphy admits, face hot with—everything, exhausted beyond reason from being undressed and not even helping at all.

Another glass of water appears in front of him, and Murphy feels so tired, he genuinely doesn't want to. What he wants is to sleep. To sleep it off, to get rid of it all.

Connor curses like their Nana used to, taking him back in time for a moment. Connor's hands are on his leg again and his voice turns frantic, and Murphy decides he doesn't want to know about it anyway.

*

When he wakes again, he wishes it would've been because of the nightmare. At least that particular shitshow used to be over and done with once he woke up. This now, his actual life, is likewise nightmarish and apparently set on staying, and he doesn't care for it one bit. He says so, out loud, despite the fact that Connor tramples around in the next room.

The footsteps are too numerous to be only Connor's.

Murphy frowns at the ceiling, listening until a door slams shut and someone shouts. Not someone—Connor shouts in that angry way he gets sometimes, not in the frightened way he gets other times. Which means it's okay, he has it under control, whatever he's doing.

At least not getting mugged. Not that there's much to mug, if the mugger isn't after bloody bandages. Or bloody towels, highly prized on the black market.

Outside, a car kicks up rubble, drawing his gaze to the window.

The _sun_ is up. One ray worms its way through a gap between the curtains and lights up his leg like the Lord stopped bothering to work in mysterious ways altogether, but still, it's day. The endless night is over, it can only get better from now on.

Murphy wiggles his toes.

One blink after he screamed, Connor comes bursting through the door. “Jesus Christ,” he snaps. “Don't move, don't ye do that, I just barely- Murphy, stop!”

“Not doing it on purpose,” Murphy wails, pushing his leg down to stop the bloody shaking. It's tearing up the wound. Blood wells up around the edges, staining the bandage, and this isn't what _hurts_. It's deeper. It's inside— “Connor, Con, something's wrong.”

Rushing over, Connor presses down on his thigh to hold him still. “What? What is it?”

It's a cramp. His leg moves with the cramp, and something is inside there, Jesus fucking Christ— “Did ye get it all? Ye said-”

“I did! It didn't splinter, I got the whole bullet.”

He breathes in and out again, consciously trying to relax the convulsing muscle. “Ye were fucking stuttering, don't think I forgot that. If yer not sure, look again!”

“Murph,” Connor says, quiet, drawing his eyes so quickly Murphy gives himself whiplash from it. The cramp stops as abruptly as it came. “I'm sure. I'm sure, I can show ye. I- It's in the bathroom. I can get it.”

Fucking shit. “Sorry. I know, sorry.” Murphy swallows, trying to get his bearing again. “Ye think that...”

“What?” Connor's hands are still on his thigh, digging in, gently massaging like that one time, ages ago. Better fucking times. “Do I think what?”

He doesn't want to know the answer. He asks anyway, because who else would he ask. They killed people and his brother has to dig bullets from his flesh by himself instead of going to a hospital. This is what they chose. “Do ye think it hit the muscle?” he asks, quiet enough he hopes Connor might not hear it. “Not only a flesh wound?”

One beat of silence, then another.

“We won't know. Let's give it time, aye?” Connor nods, looking like shite. “For now, there are more pressing matters at hand and I know yer hurting, but we have to, Murph. We have to get moving.”

Murphy sighs, exhausted just from thinking about it. Of course they have to move. These cunts knew they were coming, they know their car, maybe they even followed them back here. He's in no position to fight anyone or anything, and Connor wouldn't leave his side to do it on his own.

“Dunno how much help I'm gonna be,” he says, voice small again.

“Ye do nothing,” Connor says. “Let me do the work. Focus on—on not hurting.”

He's wearing only part of his jeans, and the part he does wear is bloody all over. Wherever they go, they have to get there without being noticed, so Murphy nods and submits to it when Connor starts to fumble with his clothes again.

His jeans come off.

The pain is almost unbearable not when the fabric drags over the actual wound but when Connor lifts his leg and Murphy tenses the muscle on instinct. It's almost too much, and then it _is_ too much and Connor doesn't stop despite looking at him with his face full of sorrow and pity. Murphy presses his fist to his mouth, muffling the sounds that escape even though he tries so very hard, and endures the process of putting on a fresh bandage.

Thank the Lord, Connor leaves him be after that and changes course to bustle about with their bags, trash bags, bloody towels, bloody shirts, bloody everything. Eventually, he comes back. The mattress dips under his weight, swaying them both.

“Is it time?” Murphy asks, way too fucking relieved when Connor shakes his head.

“Thought ye might want one,” he says, wiggling a smoke in his direction, grinning as Murphy grabs for it. Connor stuffs a pillow behind his back to get him in a sitting position, then he lights two smokes and hands him one before he leans back against the headboard.

“Where're we gonna go?”

Connor shrugs, rocking him. “Dunno, haven't looked yet. Don't worry about it.”

Looked at what? It doesn't matter.

“I moved the car as close to the door as possible. If it's too much, ye tell me, aye? I'll carry ye if I have to as long as ye don't strain yerself so the wound opens up again.”

Murphy grunts, taking a long drag, and butts his head against Connor's arm. “Ye been working out when I wasn't looking? Yer that strong, ye think?”

“Fuck off.”

They finish their smokes.

Murphy doesn't allow himself to look at the sweatpants in Connor's hands until he has to, and even then he rather shifts his focus onto Connor's serious and pale and bloody handsome face.

“First this,” Connor says, waving the sweatpants, “When we're done, I get ye some more painkillers.”

“I'm not a child that needs a reward for good behavior, ye know.”

Under his breath, Connor mutters something Murphy chooses to ignore, then Connor helps to turn him on the bed until his feet are planted on the floor. “Ready?”

“Aye.”

Connor kneels and pulls the pants over his feet, and it's not his fault, it really isn't, but it's not going to work without moving his leg and—just no.

“Maybe,” Murphy says, gripping the covers, “Maybe I should be taking one of yer pills after all.” In less than a minute, they're on their way down his throat, and it doesn't matter that it was Connor's idea, shame heats up his face anyway. “Thank ye.”

“No need for that.”

“Aye, there is. Guess I'm not really making Ma proud now, am I?” Murphy sighs, glancing up as Connor takes the glass from him.

“She would make me carry ye, that's what she would do. Ye can be grateful it's just me here. She would harass ye.” Connor nods, eyes very big, and puts the glass away. “Now stopping looking like that and let me help ye to some decency, aye?”

Murphy snorts, submitting to let himself be manhandled. Connor is all busy, thinking for them both, and he's probably right. Ma always fussed a great deal, she was always outright rough with it while Connor—isn't. He's putting his hands under his arms instead and avoids his eyes when he leans forward.

“Put yer weight on me.”

One nod and a series of grunts later, Murphy stands, fingers tight on Connor's shoulders as his brother fumbles his pants over his hips. Which means he's effectively holding him down, with his weight on Connor's shoulders. Murphy grins, going so far as to breathe out a quick laugh, the first one since this mess started.

The second mess, actually, not the one when Connor was insane. “I'm sorry,” Murphy says, sort of tittering.

With a grunt, Connor straightens and ties up his pants as if he thinks him incapable of doing even that on his own. It's nice. “Shoes?” he asks after, and that isn't so nice anymore.

“Nah.” Murphy sniffs. “Don't feel like it.”

“Ye don't feel like wearing shoes,” Connor says, voice dull and hands on Murphy's hips, steadying his swaying.

“Don't feel like putting them on,” Murphy corrects, and that's the end of the matter.

The way out of the house is as slow and painful as he imagined. The few steps from the porch to the car seem like an impossible distance, but they manage by dividing his weight between Connor's shoulders and the railing, and then he's inside, sweaty and dizzy and _whole_ , struggling to keep his eyes open for only a few moments longer and not even in the mood to roll his eyes as Connor drapes the bloody fucking snuggle blanket from their birthday over him.

By the time Connor starts the car, Murphy drifts off.

*

They're in front of a house. It's dark and cold and fucking raining, and he has no shoes. “I have no shoes,” Murphy says.

Connor flips him off and climbs out of the car.

“Welcome home,” he mutters, taking a quick inventory of himself as Connor walks up the porch, peeking behind everything that's not nailed down in search of the keys. When he finds them, he's off inside, probably looking at the layout of the house.

It's how he is. He always has a plan and he always thinks for them both, and it's always been clear he'd be lost without Connor, but now.

Now.

Murphy itches for a smoke or maybe for fried potatoes. Both, in no particular order.

The silhouette of a shadow passes by the window, then Connor comes out again, marching back to the car with long steps. Murphy peels off his blanket and sighs in preparation for the pain, and then it comes as predicted, even worse than when he was fresh on painkillers. And then truly awful when he accidentally tries to catch a step and tenses his leg on instinct.

When Murphy falls down on the bed, he may be crying, silently. No one would know except for Connor, and Connor doesn't count.

“Are ye hungry?” Connor asks, weary and tired and everything else his dizzy brain can come up with.

“Ye look like shite.”

“Well, thank ye,” Connor says, smiling, and leaves the room to do whatever he thinks needs doing. Maybe unpacking. Who the fuck knows.

“Ye should get some sleep,” Murphy calls after him, a bit petulant, but there's no answer anyway. He wipes his cheeks, drying any evidence of being a bloody baby, and looks around the room, already tired when he spots yet another wardrobe and the accompanying bedside tables.

When Connor comes back, he pulls at his sweatpants and Murphy is over feeling kind toward him. For the moment. He swallows another pill and lets Connor poke at the bandage even though he has to squeeze his eyes shut during the process.

“Looks good enough for now, I guess,” Connor says, shrugging without much conviction before he wanders away again.

It's night and he's wounded, and he can't sleep. It won't come despite being so tired even thinking about turning his head exhausts him. For a while, Murphy tries to blame Connor - or rather the noises of him being busy with whatever - but then he gets also tired of blaming him and changes tactic to track Connor's movements to pass the time—until he thinks he smells coffee, which is just ridiculous.

“Connor.” He cranes his neck to look through the open door. “Connor.”

His brother shuffles in, a steaming mug in his hand. “Can't sleep?”

Murphy gapes. “Are ye drinking coffee?”

Connor shrugs, eyes fixed on his bandage like he's already developed a compulsive habit. He slurps his coffee, loudly. “Want me to stay, in case?”

Of what?

“Get some sleep, ye've done enough.”

Connor shrugs again, taking another sip.

“My socks are wet.”

Connor blinks, stepping closer. “Are ye high?”

Rather suddenly, Murphy feels like grinning. So he does, tired to the bone. His socks come off with a wet sound and land somewhere he doesn't care about, then Connor takes his mug back. He doesn't leave and he doesn't do anything.

“Now I'm warm,” Murphy says because—he has actually no idea why. It's not even a lie, but it's not the truth either. He isn't hot or cold or anything. “Just comfy.”

“Is that so.” There's a small grin on Connor's face, he can see it. It's there. The fucker tries to hide it behind his mug, but there is no _fooling_ him. “How warm, mh?”

“Very.”

It's strange.

They look at each other without moving, and from one second to the next, Connor slaps his forehead—checks his temperature. Then he sags with a huge sigh.

“Fuck, Murph. Will ye just sleep, please? It's the middle of the fucking night.”

Murphy frowns, but he can't decide what to say instead of asking Connor to turn back time or some shit like that. A minute or two would suffice, back to when it was nice. Or, if Connor indeed possesses the ability, he could turn back time to before he was shot—but they were fighting then.

Maybe they will start fighting again once he's better, picking up where they left off. Restarting it all.

“Murphy.” It's very soft.

“I don't want to fight,” Murphy whispers, closing his eyes. “I hated that.” As if it's been years upon years instead of weeks.

“Didn't like it much either,” Connor says, also quiet. He finishes his coffee and sets the mug down with a soft clink, and the door doesn't close behind him.

When Murphy drifts off, it's to the quiet murmur of Connor praying in the bathroom.

This time, it's for him.


	5. Chapter 5

His leg is on fire and his head is clear, which means the painkillers have worn off, and the light is too bright, fucking sun, and also—he stinks. “Jesus Christ,” he says.

Next to him, Connor sleeps the sleep of the uncomfortable; he's on his side, turned toward him with his rosary wrapped tight around his throat. The cross lies on the mattress, taking command of the single inch of space between them in the decidedly small bed.

Connor blinks his eyes open.

“Good thing I can't move much or I would've shoved ye right out of the bed,” Murphy says. “If ye want to use the bathroom, better do it now cause once I get in there, I won't be coming out for a while.”

Connor rubs his eyes, nose wrinkled. “Murph.”

“Who else? I mean it, brother, I'm disgusting. I want to shower.”

Without looking for it, Connor feels around until he finds his rosary. He closes his fingers around the cross, yawns rather loudly, and takes a quick glance at Murphy's leg. There's nothing to see, it's under the covers. “Tell me yer great plan,” Connor rumbles. “Ye gonna put up yer leg while standing? Gonna do a handstand? Ye practiced yoga when I wasn't looking?”

As a matter of fact, he has no answer to that. Murphy glares. “I'm nasty, Connor. If ye don't want to see me grow mold or some shite-”

“The fuck- _stop_.” Connor groans, rolling on his back until he almost rolls off the bed as well, flailing for a moment. Karma, that's what it is. “Why are ye so fucking active? It's barely morning.”

There's a beat of silence where Murphy doesn't know how to respond, then Connor's hand is on his forehead again, warm and dry. Murphy butts his head against it. “Is there a bathtub? That could work, no? And breakfast after.” He hasn't eaten in _ages_.

Grumbling and hiding a smile Murphy sees despite Connor's sneaky attempt, Connor gets up and stretches. “Still don't get why yer so active all of a sudden,” he mumbles while lifting the blanket to peek underneath.

Murphy shrugs, pretending not to wince as the blanket slides over his leg. “I'm probably lightheaded or something.”

If his stink eye is any indication, Connor doesn't seem to agree. “At least it hasn't bled through,” he says, covering him back up. “Lemme go in first, I'll prepare everything.” Connor disappears into the bathroom, and Murphy sags back, arms sprawled. Under his palms, the warm spot Connor left lingers, sunken deep into the mattress.

It's cozy. He rolls his head, inhaling Connor's scent on the pillow.

It should be weird.

It isn't.

“All right,” Connor says from the doorway, sleep-hair sticking up every which way and face rosy. He looks almost healthy again, swelling Murphy's heart and then swelling it a bit more when Connor comes over to wrangle him out of bed and into the bathroom.

Leaning against the sink, Murphy grips the edge of the porcelain while doing his best to hide being out of breath from the short distance, unsteady on his single fucking foot and dark spots dancing in his vision. A steaming pile of shit, to sum it up.

“I'll be right next door,” Connor says with a sharp look. “Holler if ye need me.”

Murphy waves him off, ungrateful and weak, and waits until the door closes. Then he sags, catching his breath for a good while before he sets about brushing his teeth—something one only appreciates if it's no longer an option, really. When he's done, he eyes the bathtub, sweat gathering on his brow and mood turning sour.

This is, maybe, going to be harder than he thought.

Standing doesn't do much to improve the situation, and when his vision starts to blur, he lowers himself on the toilet seat and clears his throat. “Connor?” he calls faintly, half-hoping Connor won't hear him after all.

There's a shadow in front of the door at once. “Coming in,” Connor says, though he waits a moment before he opens the door, considerate as ever while Murphy scowls at the tiles because his brother is so fucking nice and he can't even bring himself to say anything, sitting quietly as if it's fucking normal for him to call for Connor's help in the bathroom.

“What do ye need me to do?” Connor asks, voice soft enough Murphy looks up again.

“Don't think I can stand long enough to get in there,” he says. “At least not on my own.”

Connor blinks at him, mouth open like he lost his brain on the way in. “Ye want me to hold ye while ye shower?”

“I need ye to help me get into the fucking bathtub, Connor.”

Connor grins, sort of manic, and jerks toward the bathtub with a look as if the entire concept of bathtubs and washing is foreign to him. Then he reaches for his rosary and mumbles something under his breath.

“Ye've got to be shitting me,” Murphy snaps. “Are ye praying for me not to slip in the fucking shower now? I'm not on the verge of dying, Connor. I'm rank. I wanna clean up, is all.” He takes a deep breath, pretending it's a huff, and glares when Connor looks dumbfounded for reasons he has no interest in. “Yer gonna help me or not?”

Connor looks like he's contemplating it, raising his hackles in a heartbeat, but then Connor gets moving and fills the tub, face stoic as he heaves him up on his feet.

Letting himself be undressed is as awkward as sitting on the edge of the bathtub, naked as the day he was born. They didn't have a bloody bathroom in their last apartment, yet he never felt quite this helpless about running around starkers. If he had the blood to spare, he'd be blushing, and Connor clearing his throat every few seconds isn't helping against his embarrassment either.

“So,” Murphy says because it won't do to simply sit down in the tub if his calf has to stay out of the water; he has to _slide_ down, somehow, and he isn't athletic even on his best days.

Connor clears his throat. “Just,” he says, rounding him in slow motion. From behind, he wraps his arms around Murphy's waist. “I'll hold ye,” he says unnecessarily.

Frowning, Murphy swings his good leg over the edge and lowers himself, slow enough his arms shake and it gets awkward again when Connor grips his bad leg so it doesn't slide down with him. When he sits at fucking last, he's basically doing a split.

It's one of the most uncomfortable things he imagined could happen, ever. Judging from Connor's face, he thinks the same.

“So”, Murphy says again, and again he has no idea how to go on. What does one say in such a situation? Appreciate yer holding my leg, really, who fucking knew I could do a split, eh?

Connor grunts.

“We won't speak of this again,” Murphy declares, craning his head and sloshing the water—which gives him some privacy, at least. The waves turn gentle again before Connor looks back at him.

“Fine by me,” Connor croaks, and then he sort of pets his knee before he snatches his hand away with another grunt. “I'll leave ye to it, no? Aye. I'll be outside. And ye just—holler.”

He has neither the intention nor the energy to deal with his weird brother, so Murphy nods and closes his eyes, waiting for the soft click of the door.

It doesn't come - which makes sense but grates on his nerves anyway, adding to the silence on the other side of it as if Connor stopped moving altogether. What's he doing, honestly? Did he go back to bed? Does he try to brew coffee by thinking about it really hard?

Huffing, this time not pretended, Murphy forces himself to relax, feeling cleaner by the second.

For about two minutes, he manages to hold it together, but even when he grips his leg to keep it in place and prevent the bloody ungrateful limb from slipping into the water through sheer force instead of tensing the torn up muscle, he can't help but flex it.

It hurts.

It's an understatement; it's too much, that's what it is, and he'll let it slide down now, water and soap can't be that bad—

“Murph, I heard-”

Murphy huffs and it comes out as a whimper.

The door slams against the wall and Connor's hands are on his knee. “Okay,” he says, looking around. He lets go for a split-second, then he's back, lifting his leg with utmost care to put a folded towel underneath.

The rough texture prevents his leg from slipping, forcing his breath out of him in a sudden rush of relief. “Fucking shit, all of this,” Murphy mutters, watching out of the corner of his eye as Connor sits down on something next to the tub. “Thank ye.”

“Okay,” Connor says, rather nonsensical, and curls his fingers around the underside of his knee. Then he stares at the wall, white and bland and not interesting at all. Murphy joins him because it seems like the sanest thing to do.

They sit in silence.

The water ripples with his breaths, sloshing around him and warming his skin, the scent of vanilla heavy in his nose. It stays nice until the water temperature drops to lukewarm and Connor hasn't said a single word, be that to make small talk or express annoyance.

Murphy clears his throat to catch his attention. “I'm gonna go under. Hold on, aye?”

Connor nods, tightening his hold as Murphy scoots forward. He lets himself sink back, muscles in his thigh pulling tight with the strange position, and ducks his head under. When he comes back up, his arms shake with the effort to hold his weight and his thigh hurts like he pulled a fucking muscle. Of course.

“This may be worse than yoga,” he states. “I had no idea I could bend my leg that way.”

Connor grunts.

Murphy's eye twitches, but nothing more comes, just the vague grunting he's heard so many times by now, he wouldn't be surprised if Connor lost his ability to speak altogether. Still, Connor's hand doesn't slip an inch, so Murphy lets him be odd and focuses on washing his hair, and after he dunks his head under once more, he's done for good.

Sitting in the tepid water, he tries to summon the energy to climb out of the tub and move on with his day.

New clothes, something to eat, a few smokes. Coffee.

It's for fucking nothing. Clothes and food are for normal people, and he's a weak ball of gum. Who's he even kidding. “I don't feel so good,” he says out loud.

“Okay,” Connor says, apparently not mute, and suddenly he straightens up again like he hit a switch. He looks almost normal again, the tight look he sported for the last half hour gone. Without loosening his grip, Connor leans over the edge, reaches into the water, and pulls out the plug.

Murphy blinks at his leg, observing the white skin tone with detached curiosity. With the blood drained in the elevated position, the wound barely hurts at all—it even stopped pulsing. He wiggles his toes.

Then he hisses and proceeds to sit around like warmed up shite while ignoring the weird prickling in his insides when he gets gradually more exposed by the draining water.

It's pathetic.

If he had enough energy for it, he'd feel humiliated, but as things are, he shoves the thought aside in favor of staying conscious.

“Almost done,” Connor says, voice quiet and gentle again as the last of the water disappears down the drain and leaves him cold. “Can ye lean forward?”

Murphy nods and scoots forward, straining his abused thigh some more as Connor clambers in behind him.

“I'll have ye out in no time, aye?” Connor says, talking right into his hair in a tone so nice, it washes over him in a wave of reassurance. “Let it slide down now, I got ye.”

Murphy does, leaning back against Connor's knees and steadying his leg with his hands to not jostle the actual wound. It doesn't hurt as much as expected, and Connor gives him a moment to catch his breath before he worms his arms around him, then it's up and up—

“Good, yer doing good,” Connor mumbles, again and again, arms firm around his waist even as has to _lift_ him out of the tub.

“Jesus, yer strong.” Murphy shakes his head, vaguely impressed even as his heartbeat pounds in his ears. “Who fucking knew,” he adds, swaying on his foot and eyeing his weird brother to ignore the perpetual shame running through him.

“Lord's name.” Connor wraps a towel around him, eyes averted to give him the pretense of privacy after his involuntary exhibitionism.

Murphy towels himself off, heart in his throat. Shame and gratefulness, that's all he's running on—and then he isn't running on anything anymore, too weak to even stand on his own.

Connor moves for them both; leaning him against the sink when he slides fresh boxers up his legs, maneuvering him back into bed, collecting dropped clothes and towels. He doesn't complain once, and Murphy's heart swells with it all, ready to fucking burst or maybe announce his gratefulness, but then an apple hovers in front of his face and Connor looks like he plans to insist, so Murphy forces it down in a few bites, terribly hungry but also terribly tired.

When he's done, Connor is back with more pills and makes him swallow those as well.

“I hate that ye have to do this,” Murphy whispers as he lies back again, blinking at his brother through half-closed eyes. The brother he was worried about until yesterday. The one who keeps a secret, a dark one. Who's always praying, looking pale, getting thinner. Who's kind and smart and solid as a rock underneath all of his guilt and sorrows, and Murphy wants- he wants—

“Hush now,” Connor says, quiet, bringing images back in a flash.

It wasn't that long ago, their birthday. It's only been a couple of days and so much is different now, and nothing changed at all.

He's out like a light.

*

Time stretches.

“It doesn't,” Connor says, voice dull while he stirs the pot in such slow circles, it looks like he's trying to hypnotize himself.

Murphy wouldn't blame him.

*

It's awful and tedious and aggravating, and he feels perfectly justified in hating every second of it while Connor is there for every second of it, not leaving him out of his sight for a moment. He hates him for it.

“At least ye can do that while standing, no?” Connor says, blinking against the sinking sun. They're in the backyard, not doing a thing. “Better than the alternative, I'm sure.”

“Which alternative?” Murphy asks, listless. He blows smoke in his direction when Connor doesn't answer. “Hating someone while sitting down is a thing. I don't need to be standing to do that.”

Connor shrugs. “But it's cooler.”

“Yer the very definition of not cool, brother. Yer uncool. The uncoolest.”

They look at each other, sort of manic with nothing to do, nothing to work off excess energy. Nothing to fucking talk about.

Though, that's a lie.

“At least it gives me something to do,” Murphy offers, vague and a bit unsure because the purpose of that bloody train of thought eludes him now. What was even the point, he fucking forgot it.

“Spreading hate to pass the time,” Connor muses. “Yer something, Murph, but I stand by it: better than the alternative.”

That doesn't make sense. The alternative of not hating him - which he doesn't do, for fuck's sake - would be liking him. Which he already does. The fuck is going on, honestly.

“Want to go back inside? I'm gonna start on dinner, I guess.”

Murphy licks his lips. “'m not hungry.” He likes watching him cook.

“Good for ye, but I am.” Connor flicks his smoke in the direction of a bush and they watch it glimmer out. “We've got some ice cream left.”

He couldn't really hate him even if he tried, but that doesn't mean it doesn't suck to have him impersonate Ma. “Can't not love the man giving me ice cream, can I?” Murphy says, standing and hopping to turn around. “Good tactic, I'll remember that.”

They go inside and Murphy watches him chop and fry and curse, and then he realizes the opposite of hating someone would be loving someone, but that still doesn't make sense.

*

By the time he's able to shower on his own - hand braced against the wall and healthy leg shaking - it's not the pain that bothers him any longer; it's dull now, constant but not insistent, just like the gunshot wound he had before. And like he thought before, this time around, the bullet didn't hit flesh only. It ran through his muscle too, tearing him open nice and good.

When he tries to flex his lower leg, to put his weight on it, to roll his bloody foot, there's a deep-seated _nothing_ happening.

At first, Murphy tries to blame the pain for it, but then Connor gets Duffy to bring over medical books, and from then on everything his awful brother talks about is scar tissue, healing, physical therapy and every other fucking shit he picked up, and he would actually like to get shot again - a flesh wound, this time - instead of having to deal with this.

“Don't be a baby,” Connor says, quiet and gentle and smiling his half-smile, and then Murphy sort of hates him again, for the time being. Then again when Connor insists on making him move his leg every day, first doing it for him and then serving as a counterweight when Murphy gets strong enough to push back into his hand.

While lying on the bed and making a bad impression of a fucking bug, back on the mattress and leg not moving an inch, helpless and angry enough to let his mood out on Connor—who doesn't complain and doesn't flinch and still doesn't leave him alone.

Getting shot again would definitely be a blessing.

“Yeah?” Connor says, lounging on the couch with his head thrown back over the armrest. “Shall I get yer gun for ye? Since ye can't move there on yer own.”

“Fuck off,” Murphy says, sweat drying everywhere on him, tickling, disgusting.

“I would, but we'd have to move elsewhere for that now, wouldn't we? No fucking to be done around here.”

That's—what?

“Yer weird,” Murphy says, frowning at Connor as he avoids his eyes to stare at the bloody TV. “What are ye getting at anyway? That I'm holding ye back?”

“Aye. Yer a burden and I'm gonna leave. Might not even call again.”

Murphy titters, sort of inappropriate because he has no clue what's going on, and his leg is numb in a way he doesn't want to think about, and Connor is lying on the couch all soft and gooey. “Ye'd miss me,” he states, grinning with a lot of teeth.

“Aye.”

There's a pause, suddenly weird, and he forgot to go with hating him again. “Without me, there'd be no one to clean up after ye,” Murphy says, lame. He clears his throat. “So, what's the message yer trying to deliver? And failing at it, might I add.”

Connor looks up with a healthy flush on his face. “That if ye don't try, it won't get better. Because it will. I swear.”

He isn't the _authority_ on this. Murphy looks away and changes the channel.

*

“I don't need yer help,” Murphy says, trying to get rid of him.

It doesn't do a thing; he's still a bug and Connor is still a saint.

“I don't want yer help,” he tries after, foot in Connor's lap, refusing to move as if not trying would magically heal him in any fucking way. Connor does the exercise for him and keeps his mouth shut.

“Leave me the fuck alone,” Murphy says at last, but he's more telling it to the ceiling than saying it to his brother, and Connor simply leaves the room.

When he comes back, it's with more pills.

Connor won't leave and Murphy doesn't want him to, but he also wants him to, so he tries to make him.

Once, he shoves at Connor until he falls from the bed and lands on the floor with a heavy thud, staying down for long enough Murphy hurts all over with it and crawls to the edge until he's able to see Connor sitting on the carpet, head bowed. Then he reaches for him, stretching his arm until his fingers connect with Connor's shoulder. Murphy pulls at him, and Connor goes with the movement, pliant and not hesitating and not complaining. He climbs back on the bed and that's it.

Sleep is hiding somewhere, doing its very best not to enter the room. The air is thick with it, uncomfortable.

“I need ye to try,” Connor says, quiet. “I'm lost, I don't know- I need ye to try.”

“I'm sorry,” Murphy says in the dark.

Turning toward him, Connor stays silent for the longest while, either planning a speech or not planning to answer at all. Then he says, “What for?” in such a dull voice, Murphy doesn't bring it up again.

He does try to be nicer though, to at least not let his mood out on Connor, but since he's the only person around, the only other human being he's seen since forever - not counting Duffy because that one leaves within minutes every time he comes by - who the fuck else is he supposed to let his mood out on?

Even for getting around the house he has to rely on his brother, letting himself be moved from one room to the other; bedroom, living room, kitchen, bathroom, back again. TV only does so much and he can only read for so long and their guns have been too fucking clean for too long and Eunice can't come by anymore after the whole shitshow they started and—

It sucks, is all.

*

He hasn't tried since, to get rid of Connor. He doesn't think he'd want to.

He doesn't want to.

*

“Connor,” he says, bored out of his mind, lying on the couch and staring at the ceiling. His new hobby. “Connor. Tell me something.”

“What?” Connor sits on the floor, back against the armchair and legs splayed out in front of him. He's thumbing through one of the medical books. Again.

“Dunno. Something,” Murphy says. “A story.” He tries to stare Connor into submission and fails, so he throws a pillow with poor aim. It lands on the book with a soft sound and earns him an unimpressed glare.

“Want to exercise some more? That it, brother?”

Murphy flips him off, outraged when Connor bends over his book again and doesn't even see it.

He doesn't, in fact, want to exercise his excuse of a leg again even though it would be a means to pass the bloody time.

And it would give him the excuse to touch, though he's still internally debating whether to bring it up or not. The problem which didn't go away but evolved instead.

Connor is there at all times. He helps him, he even dressed him - not anymore, thank the Lord - he moves him around the house, hovering. A constant presence. He's there, he isn't touching. He's helping and only that.

His normal behavior was just—a fluke.

A fluke that ended with a situation even worse than before, because while Connor actively evades casual touches again, he also sleeps in one fucking bed with him, willingly, and helps and helps and helps.

In the small bed and without the glaring pain waking him up after every movement, Murphy accidentally made contact with Connor more times than he can count, and more times than he can count as well, Connor fucking scowled at him for it. And in the evenings, he comes back to bed, starting all over again.

It doesn't make sense, and he isn't even counting in all the fucking praying. He's a very faithful man, but there has got to be a line somewhere, bloody fuck.

“Let's go out,” he says. It's dumb, he knows they can't, not in his state, not without checking out the town first, but Connor won't leave to fucking do that, he already tried. Lord, he fucking tried, but Connor insists it's too dangerous with the police on the lookout for them again—after the shooting in the middle of the fucking day. “Connor,” he says.

“Quit yapping.”

“Can't talk to myself now, can I?”

“Do something else, then.”

If he would just _talk_ to him. Or touch him. Or be a normal fucking person again. “Tell me something,” Murphy says again, bordering on whining and not caring about it one bit because it does the trick; Connor closes the book with a sigh.

“I haven't got many stories to tell which ye weren't along for anyhow.”

Murphy grins, pleased and slightly disturbed by it. His hair sticks up, electric from the upholstery, and tickles his ear. “Well, ye were hanging out with Rocco before I met him. That'd be a start.”

Connor's face shuts down like a bloody machine being turned off, and nothing more than silence follows, he doesn't even move.

“Ye think about him often?” Murphy says, trying to keep his voice quiet and the excitement out of it because this is it, maybe, at long last. The time Connor will open up—

“I don't. What's done is done.”

It sounds harsh enough to set him on edge despite being sure Connor doesn't mean it like that. Murphy swallows, thinking. “I can hear ye praying, ye know,” he says slowly, looking over out of the corners of his eyes. “Don't think there are many people ye'd do that for, and I don't see why ye wouldn't grieve over him. Or why ye'd lie about it.”

“Yer spying on me or what?” Connor asks, voice low and weird. “It's fucking private, that's what it is. Ye don't see me going around listening in on yer prayers, no?”

“Because I don't do it in front of the bed yer lying in,” Murphy gripes. “And don't change the subject. I always hear ye now, that's a fact, and I also know yer not praying for me-”

“What?”

Murphy shrugs, cheeks warm. “I thought so, in the beginning. That ye'd pray for me to get better.” He shrugs again. “But ye prayed like that even before I got shot.”

Connor pulls up his knees and folds his arms over them, looking small all of a sudden. “Ye were listening back then as well?”

“Not on purpose. I just...”

“Just what? The fuck else have ye been listening to?”

“Nothing, I wasn't trying to spy,” Murphy stresses, trying to catch Connor's eyes and failing. He sits up, itching to mimic Connor's position and being unable to, with his fucking leg.

“What do ye call it then?”

“It was before I knew ye were dreaming, too,” Murphy says. “I just wanted to know what's going on with ye.”

Connor sits, fragile somehow even though he carries all of their burdens, so strong and good. Murphy's hand twitches with the need to smooth down the hair on his nape, to simply put his hand there, a small point of contact. To open his mouth and confess that he doesn't dream anymore, not about him, not about this.

“What is it?” Connor asks, frowning and alarmed, always ready to put himself on hold at the slightest chance of putting _him_ first.

The thought isn't new. It's old, ancient, but Murphy never actually depended on it. Not like he does now. It makes him feel vulnerable, and the sun has sunken low enough to leave the room in twilight, and it's been fucking ages.

“Ye don't touch me anymore.”

Connor flinches back. “I touch ye all the time,” he insists, shoulders curling forward and eyes fucking averted, and _this is it_.

“Not in a way that counts,” Murphy says, lowering his voice. “Not like ye mean it.”

It probably comes out wrong, but he isn't in the mood for suggestive jokes and he prays Connor isn't either, with the tension in the room rising again.

“I didn't mean to hurt-” Connor stops, taking a deep breath. “Anyone.”

Unable to look up, Murphy inspects the couch and decides on a lie. “Yer not really hurting me. I'd like to know why yer doing it, is all.”

“Not because of something ye did,” Connor says roughly, drawing his eyes again. “I made up my mind about something and I suppose- I guess I thought it'd be for the best, that it'd be the only... fuck.”

His heart pounds fiercely, the sound almost loud enough to drown out his thoughts. The answer is within reach, and Connor won't look at him. “Tell me.”

Something happens in Connor, some kind of resolution. He steels himself, shoulders straight and jaw tight, and even though Murphy is fucking hurting with it, Connor looks even worse. “I won't tell ye,” Connor says. “But I could make it up to ye. If ye want me to.”

It's not supposed to be like this.

They are not supposed to be like this, dancing around whatever they're dancing around, and Connor is so tough and capable and courageous, he isn't supposed to sound so fucking hurt. Murphy has no idea what he's agreeing to, but it's something his brother offers freely, and if he declines now, something will break between them for sure.

“I'd like that,” Murphy says, then he clears his throat, awkward. “But only if ye want to. I don't want to make ye do anything just cause I'm so fucking-” Needy. He can't bring himself to say it, but Connor looks like his mind is made up anyway.

“I wouldn't,” he says, definitely lying, and gets to his feet. “It's time for yer present now.”

Oh.

“Come on, up ye go.”

They make their slow way to the bedroom.

Technically, Murphy knows he shouldn't be as excited about a stupid massage as he is, but he can't stop himself. Connor remembered—of course he did, and he offered.

And his back hurts from the unusual strain he's been putting it through anyway.

Connor leaves him by the bed and walks off to wherever he stashed the balm, and Murphy pulls his shirt over his head, lies down, and bites at his thumb. While rolling his eyes.

It's awkward.

When Connor comes back, he climbs on the bed without preamble, thighs bracketing his and fingers digging into the meat of his shoulders at once. They're slick, slightly cold, and Murphy forgets every negative thought at once and focuses on Connor's bloody talented fingers instead.

They're fucking magical in finding all the tight spots and hard knots, and within minutes, Murphy breathes hard. Connor takes his time, making a slow progression over his back, his knuckles circling each knob on his spine until Murphy feels dizzy enough to arch back, chasing the feeling as if Connor stopped already.

“Bloody fuck,” he breathes, eyes squeezed shut to not moan or do something equally dense. “How the fuck are ye so good at this? Someone should've told me.”

Connor snorts, working on, not sparing out a single cramped spot and making his skin tingle under the attention, both on his back and on his legs where Connor's weight cuts off his circulation. By the time Connor ends his circling on his lower back, Murphy is a pile of goo, boneless and moaning softly into the pillow.

“Ye must've been fiercely tense,” Connor mumbles. “Makes sense with how yer holding yerself nowadays.”

Murphy grunts, vague and not really in the mood to converse.

“Shouldn't have come to this.” Connor splays his hands and draws wide circles with the heels of his palms. “Ye should've said something sooner.”

“Didn't say something now,” Murphy points out, arching up again when Connor's hands lose most of their pressure without actually leaving.

“Yeah well, ye should have.”

It's possible Connor doesn't notice what he's doing.

The bed creaks, shaking slightly, and Murphy glances back to identify Connor's thighs as the source of it; they're shaking because he's crouching over him, not sitting on him any longer. Murphy itches to see his face, to make sense of the sudden change from having to bully his stubborn brother to touch him at all to—petting him, for the lack of a better word. With long and sweeping movements, dry where the balm got rubbed in by now.

But craning his neck would end the spell, he's sure, and this is so very nice, Murphy can't bring himself to do it. “Best present ever,” he says instead, smiling into the pillow even though Connor doesn't seem to hear him. One hand stops between his shoulder blades, pressing down as if Connor wants to start over again.

Or as if he wants to stop him from moving. Which he isn't doing anyway.

“Remember this,” Connor whispers, unclear about whether it's supposed to be an order or a question. The bed stops shaking and his hand is on the move again, only his fingertips. Connor retraces the angels on his back, following each line, up and down and up again like he did when he held the needle, ages ago.

Murphy stares without seeing, pinned to the mattress and heartbeat hammering in his ears.

This is something else entirely, he has no idea where to begin sorting this out.

Connor has lost it, obviously. His brother touches him like he wants to caress him during a massage that isn't one any longer, a massage that's been over for a fucking while—

“I remember it,” Connor says, voice so rough Murphy chokes on his breath.

Nothing about this is over. What the fuck was he thinking—as if a fucking massage, a bloody birthday present he forced onto him would set things right between them. As if Connor would be back to normal without finding a solution to whatever it is that weighs on him.

Connor should've pinched him by now, made a joke, complained about not being his servant - anything instead of indulging in whatever plagues him so badly he can't even shake lose of it here.

Murphy shifts, trying to catch Connor's attention. It does nothing, so Murphy shoves his arms under himself and cranes his head, turning as far as he can and dislodging Connor's hand in the process. He props himself up on his elbow. “Yer okay?” he asks, eyeing Connor's frozen form. “Connor.”

Connor blanches, reeling back like he's having a sudden attack, eyes dark and shaking and— “Mur- Jesus fucking Christ,” Connor stammers. “Jesus Christ, I'm sorry. I'm sorry.” He slips in his haste to climb off, knee catching on Murphy's hip, movements jerky and hands shaking while he won't stop apologizing and hasn't even crossed himself for using the Lord's name in vain.

“Connor,” Murphy says, snatching at his wrist, unable to hold on as Connor slips away, and then he's off the bed and by the door already.

“I'll start on dinner,” he rasps, and then he's gone.

Murphy stares at the door, mouth open to call after him.

He can't come up with anything to say.

It was bad before, but this—there are no words for this, no plan, no guide on how to maneuver through it. He has half a mind to stalk after him and demand answers until Connor caves, but then he doesn't.

He looks at the ceiling until his heart stops thudding and his panting dies down, and then he lies around a bit more, stalling until he hears the clatter of pots coming from the kitchen. Hiding in here won't do anything, and it's unlikely that he can make the situation even worse, so Murphy puts his shirt back on and follows the scent of cooking spinach.

As soon as he hops through the door, Connor tries to flee.

Murphy blocks the door.

They stand frozen until Murphy catches Connor's eyes with the most innocent look he can muster, and to his surprise, it works.

The atmosphere stays tense, but as he starts to blather on about everything that comes to his mind, Connor resumes cooking. Watching him is normal, it's safe, and by the time they eat, Connor chimes in on his own, careful at first and then carelessly again. Like he's supposed to.

It's an unspoken truce, a promise to not bring _it_ up again hanging over their heads like a dark cloud that's not quite ready to burst yet.

The evening drags on until Murphy is tired enough he can't hold his eyes open any longer, lounging on the couch with his yawning brother in his peripheral view. It's hours after their usual bedtime, and he's had enough. Fucking enough. “Let's go to bed,” he says.

Connor is up like he waited for him to say it. “Aye, good,” he says, weird as usual now. Murphy fists his hand in the back of his shirt and follows him into the bedroom.

The smell of the balm still lingers, both on him and the bed, settling like a blanket over his skin before Murphy falls asleep to Connor's barely audible murmuring.

He's praying again. In the bathroom, as if not to disturb him.

As if not to let him hear.


	6. Chapter 6

Murphy watches him. It becomes an obsession and he lets it happen because there's nothing else to do, simple as that. Connor has a problem—he's gone in the head, possibly, and he needs to know what it's about.

Dozens of ideas flow through his head, all of them vague, overwhelming him in a matter of days.

“Tell me,” he says one morning, staring at Connor from a few inches away while his brother blinks, still in the process of waking up. His barriers are down, face soft and rosy with sleep; there couldn't be a better time, and even though the look makes Murphy want to reach out and frame Connor's face to capture the image and hold onto it forever—he doesn't.

No use in adding to the weirdness, one crazy brother is enough, and since they're back to square one - sans the massage - he needs answers first and foremost.

Connor rolls away and straight out of bed. “Gonna make waffles, aye?” He shuffles toward the bathroom. “Got Dolly to bring that stuff with the chocolate chunks for ye.”

“Grand.” Murphy yawns and proceeds to pretend there is no problem even when Connor obviously aborts a movement or cuts himself off in the middle of a sentence.

The next day, he asks again, whispering it when Connor stirs in the morning, then again in the dark of the night when he can't fall asleep.

Nothing.

He watches Connor bustle about the house, sometimes lost in thought while he stares at nothing in particular, sometimes engrossed in a book, sometimes chasing him with a game of Scrabble and a terrifying look on his face.

He watches Connor pray and eat and sleep, calling Eunice, talking to Duffy when he visits with bags upon bags of groceries in his hands—and one bag full of money, just in case.

He watches Connor lounge on the couch, laughing and yawning and bored and intrigued, arm thrown over his head, finger scratching at the cross on it.

It does nothing, no input, no epiphanies, nothing he didn't know before, and not once Connor has asked him what he's doing; the most alarming sign of them all.

Murphy analyzes what he can get his hands on until his head pounds and he feels his brain cells dying. “Tell me,” he says again, listless.

Connor answers with a smile that's only half and eyes that are too bright, and then he closes them and goes to sleep.

Sometime after, Murphy says, “Ye love me.”

It's obvious. They never had to say it out loud, but maybe it's time now, after everything.

“Of course I do,” Connor says, peeling a potato.

After that, Murphy stops being stealthy about staring and Connor stops pretending he doesn't notice it, though he gets strangely conscious of his movements from there on and ruins anything resembling peace.

Sometimes, he gets even flustered with it.

Connor lies on the couch, hands folded on his belly and face utterly relaxed in a sight that's rare enough, Murphy would've looked even if he weren't compelled to learn about the secret. The tips of Connor's fingers rest on his skin instead of his shirt; it's rucked up, forcing Murphy to focus on it for reasons he doesn't care about.

When he looks up, he catches Connor looking at him—looking at him. “What?” Murphy asks, blinking.

Connor shrugs, and the situation should be over and done with. Concluded. Nothing to see here, please move along.

Murphy keeps still as Connor's cheeks fill with color, as his fingers flex, curling around the hem of his shirt. Murphy blinks again, watching the fingers as if he hasn't seen a hand in his life before.

The flush stays.

*

“I love ye too, ye know,” Murphy says, feeling a frown form on his face without meaning to do it. “Just saying.”

“Naturally,” Connor says.

They smoke in peace.

“I mean it, though.” Murphy takes a long drag, blowing it out into the cold air of the night. Not a single star is visible even though every light in the house is turned off. Fucking cities.

“Murph,” Connor says, slow and quiet. “Do ye think I doubt that?” He looks at him, face illuminated by the glimmer of his smoke, and Murphy doesn't have an answer.

“Guess not,” he says. Something tingles in the back of his mind, a strange idea maybe, or an old thought. He can't get a hold of it and he can't tell whether he lied or not.

*

The blushing, though. That was something.

Connor doesn't blush; he rolls his eyes, makes stupid jokes or rubs at his neck when he's done something really embarrassing, muttering under his breath and ultimately trying to put the blame on him, the fucker.

Connor does a lot of things when he's flustered, but he very definitely doesn't blush.

And then he did. He went and blushed with his stupid fingers on his belly as if either his fingers or his belly are something to be weird about. He's seen Connor's cock flap around since the day they were born, there's no fucking reason to get all coy now when they lived without a bathroom before.

Murphy pauses, staring at the fridge like it holds the answers.

That wasn't the first time Connor blushed. He does it every now and then, nowadays.

Doesn't he?

Doesn't he—fuck.

Fuck.

*

Murphy spends days on that particular thought, just in case.

The massage was the catalyst of the entire train of thought and back then, he couldn't put his finger on the reason, but now, now, now—

His voice was rough. All traces of the balm were rubbed in and Connor hadn't stopped, his fingers traced fading lines of ink instead as if his tattoo had anything to do with anything, and when he snapped out of it, he apologized over and over as if he'd done a great wrong.

As if his intentions were different. As if he thought about something else entirely, something that wasn't a massage.

Connor's hands on a normal day: helping him walk, tending to his wound, steady, healing, protecting and shying away from him.

Connor's hands on the days in-between: massaging, stroking, lingering. Not overly long, just a moment or two. Never indecent, but now that Murphy thinks he knows, the difference is easy to see.

It would explain Connor's mood switching from laughing and touching him to freezing on constant repeat. He always looks like he isn't doing it on purpose, like it's something that overcomes him, his body making the decision for him, unconsciously reaching out, and - when he snaps out of it - drawing back, retreating as if the simple act of clapping his shoulder holds a hidden meaning.

Maybe it does.

When it's dark, Murphy prays.

_Show me Thy ways, oh Lord, and teach me Thy paths. Lead me forth in Thy truth and teach me, for Though art God of my salvation, in Thee do I trust all the day._

The shower stops running. Maybe Connor hears him, but he has nothing to hide.

No one has to hide, no one should have to.

Connor shouldn't.

Murphy gets into bed and lies in the dark until Connor stumbles in and finds his way next to him. They lie in silence, and while it should be uncomfortable, awkward even, it somehow isn't. Still, his heart beats too fast and his mouth is dry, and Connor smells like lavender. He doesn't like lavender.

 _They_ don't like lavender.

Murphy turns his head and says, “Yer in love with me.”

Nothing happens. The world keeps on turning and Connor doesn't laugh or scoff or complain, he doesn't threaten to shoot him and he doesn't beg him to take it back. He doesn't even flinch like he does sometimes.

They breathe in silence, and then Connor gets up, walks out of the room, and closes the door behind him.

This is it.

Murphy looks after him, paralyzed.

Aye, this is it.

 

Connor doesn't come back.

*

Waking without the presence of his brother proves to have more of an impact on his mood than he planned for—despite doing it all his life.

He's cold and the small bed is too big and it's entirely understandable why Connor left. Of course he did, what else was he supposed to do?

It's a bloody nightmare, not unlike their actual nightmare—fucking Christ, that's how bad it was. Enough for Connor to crawl into his arms like a child seeking comfort.

Murphy crosses himself for trespassing and breathes out a soft, “Fuck.”

It's not enough. It's never going to be enough, how can they possibly recover from this, how did it even happen— “Fuck,” he says through the lump in his throat, then he digs the heels of his palms into his eyes until shapes dance in his vision, and only then he's ready to get up and limp into the bathroom.

The water relaxes some tightness in his muscles he has no knowledge of obtaining. He feels more relaxed than the day before and that doesn't make sense and makes him angry instead, raising something like hate in him, completely uncalled-for.

He said it to Connor too, that he hates him.

In the back of his mind, he still remembers a time when he didn't, in fact, hate everything. He used to be open, outgoing. Fun. Invited to all sorts of parties back at McGinty's. When they were the ones to celebrate, there always used to be a crowd to clink glasses with as well. Back on their last birthday, Connor had been plastered not unlike the recent one—but in a fun way. In a laughing and roughhousing and singing kind of way, not a sobbing mess, half-naked and curled into himself.

Murphy sighs and stays under the shower until his skin wrinkles and he still can't figure out what he did that day to cause such a reaction.

To avoid doing it again, he should ask.

There's no way to ask a question like that.

“Hey Connor, remember when ye had yer breakdown?” Murphy mutters, furiously scrubbing his hair. “Tell me what I did so I don't make ye sad again.”

Fucking right, that's how he'll do it; walking right up to his brother and demanding some answers, maybe another confession as well, while they're fucking at it.

Tell me all of yer secrets or else.

No, this isn't about him, he knew it for weeks. This is simply the conclusion. He knows now, but that doesn't mean it's about him. If he walks out there and Connor sees how tense he is, he'll be even worse off and then _he_ will be more tense and it will become a never-ending circle of fuckery, and that won't fucking do.

With a nod, Murphy dresses himself and marches briskly—hobbles resolutely toward the door and swings it open.

Something falls on his foot.

He stares down at it, uncomprehending. Then he listens. And listens some more, because it's awfully quiet. Too quiet, and someone leaned a cane against the bedroom door, and if Connor isn't holding his breath without moving, he's not here. Which means he left the house. He left and drove away and bought a cane, and then he came back, leaned it against the door, and left again.

Shoving the cane aside, Murphy closes the door and sits back on the bed.

A cane makes sense. It makes perfect sense, he thinks, swallowing against his rising panic. With a cane, he can walk around the house without having to rely on his brother. This is how it's going to be: Connor will go out on his own and he will expect him to use the cane to regain independence. Connor will sleep on the couch because he hasn't needed his help like that in a while and this is how it's supposed to be.

It should've been like this for a while. Brotherly isn't what they were doing these past weeks, though he doesn't know a better word either.

If he'd known, he wouldn't have—done what he did. He's not sure what he means by it, but he's very sure he would've behaved differently.

And now he sits in the fucking bedroom, hiding like a three-year-old.

“Okay,” Murphy says. “Okay.” He gets up and maneuvers around until he's able to bend down with some trouble, picking up the cane and squinting at it.

If there's an expert on these sticks somewhere, he isn't one.

It's a cane. It's long and dark and it has a handle, and he doesn't like it.

Testing its stability earns it a brownie point, then Murph walks a few steps with it, and despite his shitty mood, he's forced to admit a cane is a bloody useful thing to have if one is a cripple like him.

After completing a handful of circles, he makes a second attempt to leave the bedroom, and this time, nothing comes flying when he opens the door. Nothing else comes forth, either. Connor is nowhere to be seen, and Murphy decides to not let that bother him - which is a lie - but their bags are still where they should be and Connor wouldn't have left without at least some clothes and his gun. He may be weird, he may be a twat, he may be in love—

Whatever. Connor isn't stupid.

Though, he's in the backyard.

Helping himself to a cup of leftover coffee, Murphy sees smoke curling up first, then he cranes his neck and spots Connor sitting on the wooden steps, radiating tension so strongly he's surprised he didn't fucking feel it through the walls.

Coffee in one hand and cane in the other, Murphy opens the door and ignores his flinching brother and the way his shoulders are raised up around his bloody ears. There will be time for that, but first, he needs to sit down without the cane slipping and his coffee spilling—without any help from Connor, since that one stares straight ahead like he's made out of wax.

Murphy sits, glaring at the grass. There are a million things he wants to ask: How did it happen? Did Connor wake up one day and was in love with him? When did it happen, after the shooting? After he started praying all the time? When did he think of him as something other than his twin?

How did he notice the difference?

What is the difference?

Instead of any of that, he says, “Good thinking.” and nods at the cane. “It's useful, I suppose. Makes me able to walk around, ye know. So I don't have to hobble everywhere.” He grins, insane. “Makes me look a bit like a senior citizen, though.”

Connor is tense from his eyes to his shoulders to his hands, though thankfully, they're on his knees and not around his rosary for once.

“Connor,” Murphy says, staring at his profile. There are shadows under his eyes as if he hasn't slept a second. He looks worn - he always does now - but the air of weary acceptance about him is new. “Yer okay?” he asks because he's the worst person to grace the planet with his existence, ever.

Connor bows his head. “What do ye want me to say?”

“The truth,” Murphy says. Nothing comes. He sips his coffee. “Is there something I can do?” he asks. “Or something I shouldn't do, maybe?”

“I don't know. I don't know, Murph.” Connor sighs. He hasn't looked at him once. “I don't want to talk about it.”

Murphy tightens his hold on the mug to hide that his fingers took up shaking. This is harder than he thought it would be. Maybe because he didn't think about it at all. “But we've got to,” he says at length, trying for gentle. “I'm sorry, but we do.”

“I'm trying, no?” Connor snaps, glaring at him for long enough to show his red-rimmed eyes. “I'm trying.”

This isn't about their conversation; he's talking about the situation they're in, and Murphy feels his heart bursting.

“I never said ye weren't,” Murphy says, leaning forward to catch his eyes. “I never _thought_ ye weren't, but ye've got to tell me when I'm doing something... If there's something...” He trails off, jaw clenched to focus on not sounding like a stuttering fool in the face of his brother fucking hurting. “If I make ye uncomfortable without knowing, tell me.”

Connor groans, a deep and heartfelt sound. “This is a fucking nightmare,” he mutters, rubbing at his eyes for so long, it seems like that's the end of their conversation, but then he drops his hands again, eyes even redder than before, and looks him square in the eye. “I don't want ye to worry about it. Ye do what ye do and everything else ye leave to me. There's no need for ye to be—to be burdened with this.” He looks very sincere, and Murphy glares at him, head pounding and fingers numb from the bloody coffee.

“But I am. I know now and if I don't want to add to yer pain or whatever it is - and I don't want to fucking do that - ye've got to tell me when that's the case. I can't read yer mind.”

“Obviously.”

Murphy swallows.

“It wouldn't be yer fault, Murph.” Connor raises his shoulders in a shrug without lowering them again. “But if ye mean it the other way around, then _ye_ tell me. I don't want to make ye uncomfortable either.”

“Why would ye make me uncomfortable?” Murphy asks, reaching for a smoke and frowning when there's no answer except the uneasiest silence they ever sat through. It dawns on him when some color comes back into Connor's face, painting his cheeks an interesting shade of red. “Oh.”

This is his cue to be repulsed.

But if there's something more urgent, something burning on the tip of his tongue, it's all right to feel repulsed later, no? Because the question wants to take over his brain if he doesn't let it out soon, and he fucking needs to know. He needs to. How the fuck did Connor know, how did he find out _that_ kind of love is in him—

Oh.

Jesus Christ, all the fucking times he helped him in the bathroom.

“Aye, that.”

“Not that,” Murphy stresses, face burning as his mind runs a live-show of all the occasions he's been naked in front of his brother during the worst of his injury, including any and all times he helped him into the shower or bathtub, and that one memorable instance when he actually carried him in his arms-

“Fucking- Murphy,” Connor snaps. “I won't sit here-” He doesn't. He straightens up so fast, Murphy has barely time to snap out of his thoughts before Connor reaches the door.

“Wait, wait,” Murphy hurries. “I'm sorry.” Mortified, he fumbles for his cane to get up as well, but he's way slower than Connor and the door swings open already.

“The fuck are ye sorry for?” Connor says. “It's not yer fault.” Despite the flight instinct he radiates, he stays where he is, eyes down on the wooden floorboards. “That's why I said I don't want to talk about it. I didn't want it to be like this, but then I couldn't control myself and- But none of these things are yer fault.”

Murphy steps up to him, slow and careful with his cane thudding dully. “I'm sorry for making it hard for ye,” he says and he means it, and his heart is fucking breaking and there's a lump in his throat. “Ye didn't do anything wrong. I didn't find out because ye lost control or whatever it is yer telling yerself. It's just that I'm very persistent and I didn't have anything else to do.”

“There a point to this?”

“This is me trying to make ye understand, Connor, because ye can be bloody thick sometimes,” Murphy gripes. “Nothing ye ever did made me uncomfortable. It's the exact opposite, all ye ever did for me was generous and kind and if I had fucking known - now listen - if I had known, I would've been more careful.”

As soon as the words are out, he frowns, but Connor doesn't see, thankfully; he stares at the floor, blinking fast.

“More careful doing what? Not getting shot?” His hand clenches around the doorknob. “Wouldn't have mattered.”

“I think it does.”

“It was too late by then, don't ye fucking understand that?”

Slowly.

When the words sink in, Murphy reaches out, connecting with Connor's arm, feeling him tense so bloody fast he drops his hand again. “Sorry, I just-” Murphy shakes his head, ready to take it back, but Connor beats him to it.

“Please.” It's all he says, and it's enough.

He's done enough. Every good intention he has turns to shit because he doesn't know when to stop, so Murphy keeps his mouth shut this time and simply nods, receiving a nod in return. When Connor goes back inside, he leaves the door open, but his back stays tense and his shoulders are drawn up, and maybe, just maybe, he should heed his own advice and give it a rest for now.

Murphy lowers himself back on the stairs and belatedly lights the cigarette he held onto, watching the smoke curl into the early sun. Inside, the tap starts running, followed by the clatter of cutlery, the rustling of paper bags—sounds that indicate Connor is making breakfast.

That he drove by somewhere to buy breakfast, in addition to the cane.

That his brother put in this much effort before he was even awake, maybe thinking he had to do it; to set things right, to improve their situation, to appease him.

His heart clenches painful enough to take his breath away. Murphy takes two quick drags to bury the feeling, eyes on his empty cup. He craves more coffee and he can't go inside, and he cannot do it like he thought he would either, pretending the only problem arising from his own brother being in love with him would be how he'd get around the house from now on.

It's not enough, not even close to it.

All these times he heard Connor praying for a soul, it wasn't for Rocco or for him to pull through. Connor said as much, and he didn't listen.

Turns out, he didn't listen to a lot of things. He knew about jokes falling flat and touches shied away from just as he knew about Connor being in pain, having a secret, carrying something so dark he didn't go to confession any longer, but he never listened and understood.

Murphy reaches for his rosary, fingers closing around air. It's on the bedside table where it belongs, but with his mighty urge to say something, he needs it now. He needs to pray, and He better listen.

They've done everything He asked them to. They've been loyal to a fault, and he can't imagine anyone being more devout than Connor, his brother who carries out His commands, who tries his best to live by His rules, who prays for his own soul, burdened with a sin so great he thinks he has to bury it under all the good he's doing like he's working off a debt.

It's not right to punish him like this.

Why would He send a dream if this knowledge makes it even harder for Connor to bear? Why would He send a dream to show him his brother on his knees when he sees it now, in the real world, and there's nothing he can do to help him besides trying to carry the burden himself?

He would, if he could. If Connor let him, he'd take the sin from him and make it his own.

He would.


	7. Chapter 7

They've never been separated, not once in their lives, and after their extreme closeness during the last month, even the closed bedroom door feels like too much.

Too much space, not enough hearing, seeing, smelling.

Murphy tries to put it off, but once he changes the sheets, the last trace of Connor sleeping beside him disappears for good, and rather than being pleased about it, he fucking mopes—though even in his sour mood, he knows he can't ask Connor to please keep the door open when he goes to bed.

Obviously, his brother wants it this way, needs it like he needs space and peace and not be needled with questions about why's and how's and when's.

Worst-case scenarios cloud his mind and become a menace.

Thinking about how Connor might've felt when he broached the subject of his constant praying, when he hassled him without end, even getting physical over it - the thoughts leave Murphy breathless, forcing him to relieve memories as if it would change a thing. He behaved like an ungrateful brat while Connor dug bullets out of him, carried him, cared for him.

Helped him in the bloody bathroom when he was weak and exposed and nearly unresponsive with pain.

There hasn't been a stray hand or lingering touch during those times, he _knows_ it.

The love Connor thinks he's feeling—that love isn't physical; even during the massage he bullied Connor into doing, his brother didn't step over any lines, he simply got lost inside his head for a moment.

When he thinks about his own hands on someone he loves and them being needy like he was, arching back and moaning and whatever else he did—it's no wonder Connor lost it a bit.

It's natural, he guesses.

Which doesn't explain why he's waking up with a tight chest for seven days in a row, but it does make him stop guessing, completely and all the way.

After some searching, he finds Connor in the kitchen. He's bowed over an old newspaper, coffee next to it, and if it wasn't for his tense shoulders, he'd look like he always does: a twat.

“We have to make plans,” Murphy says, plopping down on the nearest chair. The cane clatters to the ground and he glares after it.

“Okay. All right.”

“If I could,” Murphy says, “and I'm not saying I can, there's no reason to give me the stink eye - If I could go back to work already, where would we start? Did ye ever discuss any leads with Duffy, during?”

“Ah, that first. Okay. Okay.”

He lights a smoke, waiting.

“He gave me some intel.” Connor smooths down the edges of the paper, shrugging. “I wasn't too keen on listening back then, can't tell ye much.”

“Then we give him a call, find out what we can find out, and go from there.”

“If that's what ye want.”

If this is how it's going to be from now on - Connor trying to bloody well please in every aspect to deflect from what he thinks his biggest sin to be - then he doesn't want it. “What I want is to make plans,” Murphy says, staring at his brother until he looks up. “Well, go on then,” he mutters, nodding in the direction of the phone.

Connor goes, looking unwilling enough Murphy listens with half an ear to confirm whether he's going through the validation process. After two answered questions, Connor grabs a stray pen and scribbles something on the newspaper.

“So,” he says when he's done. “The one who shot ye—that one was dead on the scene. The other died later, which leaves us with both the hair-guy and the fat man still breathing.”

Murphy sits, smoking, a bit unsure as he waits for the rage that doesn't come. Somehow, he forgot to be angry at the man who shot him, let alone plot revenge for the whole group trying to kill them, while he had enough anger to spare to inform his brother of his hatred for him. Which sounds rather unhealthy, so he clears his throat and focuses back on the topic at hand. “But there's no word on how they knew we were coming?”

“None. Suppose they saw us, simple as that.” Connor lights a smoke, frowning with his whole face. “Duffy says they're in hiding now, with the police sniffing around.”

“Figures.”

They sit, quiet for a beat.

“At least they haven't been able to follow us here,” Murphy says to say something, uncomfortable in the strained atmosphere without being able to put his finger on the reason for it. It shouldn't be this weird, they're just talking about _work_.

“Impossible,” Connor says with a smile.

Murphy frowns.

“With changing the car twice and hiding out here?” Connor says, frowning back.

“Twice? When did that happen?”

Connor blinks. “Right after we came here. When Duffy brought yer medication.” He looks away, taking a long drag. “He took the car with him, just in case. Guess ye were still too out of it back then.”

The smoke stings in his eyes and something isn't right. “We don't have a car,” Murphy says.

Connor's hand creeps over. He takes the burnt-down filter from his fingers and stubs it out. “We don't have a car,” he agrees as Murphy leans back in his chair, chest tight and fingers tingling.

“How did ye buy the cane?”

The smoke is as dead as it gets. “I walked,” Connor tells the ashtray between them. “Wasn't that far.”

It's a lie.

The audacity to lie to his fucking face—as if that ever worked, as if Connor thinks his fucked-up leg means he's fucking simple-minded now. Murphy grinds his teeth and wills down something that might be shame. “So we can't make plans because they're hiding and we don't know where,” he says. “Because I think that's something Duffy and the others should be doing, finding that out. In the meantime, I work on getting back in order so that by the time we flush them out, we can take them out.”

That's better, a bloody good speech doing wonders to make his shame disappear.

“Aye,” Connor says, face pulled into an uncomfortable grimace. He stubs out his own smoke, again for long enough it's obvious he's cooking something up in that thick head of his, and it can't be good.

Murphy sits and waits and waits and it doesn't come. “Or not?” he asks at length. “This isn't me telling ye how we do it. It was a question, aye? Ye've got other plans, fucking share them.”

“Nah.”

“Nah?”

“I don't have other plans,” Connor says with a look like he's ready to get up and possibly flee the scene, lips parting with a soft sound and closing again right after.

“Connor,” Murphy says, and then he doesn't know how to go on.

“Afterward,” Connor says to the paper, “When we finished them, will ye want me to leave?”

The words don't make sense. The entire concept is so foreign, it's offensive having to listen to it in the first place. Why the fuck - in what fucking _world_ would he want Connor to—

Connor stands, movements jerky as if he's made out of mechanical parts set together all wrong.

“Connor,” Murphy says, staring in horror as Connor picks up the cane and leans it against the table. Within reach and with a half-smile on his face.

“It's fine.” He turns to leave, and Murphy grabs his cane.

“Wait.”

“I said it's fine, Murph. It's all right.”

This is all wrong, completely, and so like Connor, his heart swells for a moment, bloody insane. Then his brain starts working again and presents him with the image of Connor's retreating back, and this is—this isn't only wrong. It's absolution. This is Connor saying it's his right to want him gone, to cast out the sinful brother after the job is done.

Connor believes that is something he would do.

“Will ye quit, ye fucking bastard,” Murphy hisses belatedly, standing with effort as Connor stops in the doorway. Murphy sways, shaking with delayed anger and hurt and sorrow and— “I never want to hear that again. This isn't how we _do_ things.”

Connor huffs out a small sound, face pale as he turns around. “Can't ye see it's not working? Everything is awful now, don't tell me ye want to live like this.”

Without a warning, something snaps. It's in his chest—it's the thing that hides there, the one that gnaws at him, chipping away parts of him to hollow him out. Fucking Christ.

Hail Mary.

Murphy clutches the top of his cane until his knuckles hurt. “What I want,” he says. He lowers his voice. “What I want?”

“Wha-”

“Are ye telling me I don't want to live like this?” His ears ring. “Or are ye asking me for once?”

“I've got no idea what yer on about.”

Murphy rushes forward, cane slipping on the linoleum. He herds Connor into the living room, muscles coiled tight. “Ye never fucking once asked-” The cane tilts to the side, sending him reeling. He trips, hopping on his foot to maintain his balance, and hisses out in anger as he grips the fucking piece of wood.

The cane flies across the room and something clatters, falling to the ground while Murphy flails, then he slaps at Connor's arms as his brother reaches for him. “Take yer fucking hands off,” he cries, “I'm not fucking done!”

His speech dies as abruptly as his newfound balance when Connor snatches his hands away and stumbles back like he's been hit.

“Christ, Connor, I didn't mean it like that. I'm just fucking- I can't believe yer this fucking dumb!” Murphy hobbles after him, gripping the back of the armchair for support.

“It's fine.”

Fucking Christ.

Murphy sways again, throat burning. “It's not fine, ye fucker. Why don't ye know I didn't mean it like that? I won't ever-”

“But that's where yer wrong,” Connor croaks, shaking his head fast as he takes a step back. “Ye should mean it. Aye, ye shouldn't want me to come anywhere near ye.”

No.

“What're ye saying?” Murphy asks. “Yer a predator? That it? Should I be careful around ye?” The thing roars, claws at him, ripping into his heart. “If yer a fucking predator, Con, if that's true and I shouldn't want ye near me, what does that make me?”

“Shut-”

“Cause I always want ye to touch me.” Murphy whines, alarmed, hopefully only in his own head, staring at his thick brother who knows nothing. “I always want that and yer the one making it difficult! I keep praying to fucking God ye'd stop being so careful around me!”

_Hail Mary Hail Mary Hail Mary_

“It doesn't matter, Murph,” Connor says quiet and slow with a smile on his face. It looks insane. “I don't need to know. I don't want to know.”

They look at each other, one second, then another and another until Connor turns around and leaves.

Murphy stares after him, reeling both inside and out. He swallows and pants and swallows some more until he's ready to move again, convincing his body to hop the few steps toward the cane. When it's in his hands, he makes his slow way to the bedroom, closes the door, and turns to the bedside table.

The rosary is still where he left it, ages ago. Of course it is.

Murphy takes it, closes his fingers around it until the beads dig into his skin, and hangs it around his neck. He sits on the edge of the bed and closes his eyes.

_In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit..._

*

By the time the sun sets, Connor pretends everything is back to normal, and it's stressful and nauseating, and Murphy goes along with it while his unfavorable habit of replaying every conversation in an endless loop of flashing red mistakes reaches the level of compulsion. Who does that, admitting to someone who loves the wrong person that their touch is needed, even wanted?

Embarrassment doesn't cut it, this is a mortal shame - something he should pray over, long and fucking hard. These things spill from his mouth without his consent, and none of this can be good.

When Connor finishes up in the bathroom, he bids him good night and closes the door, erecting the barricade between them, endlessly pretending this is what he wants instead of—something else.

Murphy prays again.

His need for guidance is so strong and there isn't a bloody soul on this bloody planet he could talk to about their situation, but he still doesn't dare bring up Connor's affliction. It's for his brother to tell, he won't betray him.

Keeping the secret, Murphy meditates over his own words instead, the ones springing out of him, the ones he keeps repeating.

Over his need to be asked. Over his need.

*

The days go slow until the thing inside of him finally succeeds; he's hollow. A crack sits within him, an emptiness filled with nothing but a few words.

_Ye weren't supposed to know._

They're not his own, neither are the feelings related to them. He knows that. They're Connor's and he absorbed them all, creating a mess of raw emotions he's unable to interpret or control.

*

Every once in a while, he sits on the couch watching some stupid movie, brain cells dying, fingers tapping a rhythm against the cushions and good leg bouncing up and down, and he catches himself looking at Connor. It's something he always did, but before, he never made a game out of guessing whether Connor noticed him doing it.

After a while, it's easy to tell; Connor sits straighter, a slight frown on his face, and keeps commenting on whatever happens on screen until he thinks he's safe again. When he doesn't notice, he runs his hands through his hair and glances about the room, eyes flickering all over everywhere to distract himself.

There's nothing, Murphy knows. He tried the same, that's why he's playing this stupid little game and got stuck on mulling over the fact that Connor said he doesn't _want_ to know, not that he _doesn't_ know.

“I could cook,” Connor says, listless and slow and eyelids drooping low.

Murphy yawns. “Yer feeding me up and I won't stand for it.”

“That's cause I can see yer ribs from here.”

Craning his head, Murphy manages a half-glare before he can't be bothered anymore. “I've got clothes on, ye know,” he says, though he finds himself glancing toward the kitchen nonetheless, sort of hungry without being hungry.

“I've noticed.”

He snaps his gaze up and nearly misses Connor cringing.

His head is empty. There's no joke to follow it up without insinuating something, so he proceeds to stare dumbly. At Connor. His brother who wouldn't be averse to him watching TV naked or how the fuck is he supposed to take that, what's that even mean, what— “Pizza,” Murphy bleats.

Connor's eyebrows are somewhere up in his hairline. “I won't put paprika on it. There's got to be a line.” His voice is rough.

“Fine,” Murphy says, sitting up. “As long as ye don't put apples on it or some shite like that-”

“That was one time, brother. Once, and it wasn't even my idea.”

Aye, it was Rocco's, but that's best to be ignored.

 

He gets paprika on the corner. He doesn't notice until the pizza is in the oven, and because there's nothing to say to that either, he chooses to ignore that as well.

*

He pushes on, overdoing his exercises until pain flares up hot enough he's forced to take it slow during the following days, and then he pushes too hard again, takes it slower, pushes too hard—it goes on and on and on because walking alone won't cut it, simple as that. If he wants to work, he needs to run, and if it's only to be able to make it out of the line of fire and around the next corner.

Muscles sore from his early-morning exercise, Murphy sits in the kitchen, coffee in one hand and smoke in the other, pretending to enjoy the silence.

“Mornin',” Connor rumbles as he shuffles into the room with bleary eyes and reaches for the pot without any coordination. He's practically sleepwalking while he shouldn't have been able to sleep through both the workout and his following rampage in the kitchen in the first place.

Connor turns, eyebrows raised.

“Good morning,” Murphy says, very friendly with a smile and a nod. Because he's insane, apparently, and his brother seems to think the same, also apparently. Connor's fingers twitch around his mug and his shirt is wrinkled, almost see-through by now, barely reaching down to his briefs. Which are also sort of threadbare.

“What's with ye?”

“Nothing,” Murphy says, putting his smoke back between his lips as Connor turns away with a shrug.

Watching him is still an obsession, but so far, Connor let him—apart from the occasional frown. A useless reaction, because he wouldn't know how to stop anyway. He's noticing things even though these things have been there all along; the small scar right above Connor's knee, ages old and the memory of it fuzzy with age and childish thoughts. Or his neck, just as a general observation. As if he did not possess a neck before.

It's pale, slightly bowed forward nowadays, cocky stance lost over time.

Over him.

Connor catches a toe on the table leg and howls.

“Feeling chipper, are we?” Murphy grins, ducking out of the way when Connor swats in his direction.

“It's too early,” Connor says, moving to sit in slow-motion while the smoke between his fingers burns to its death without him ever taking a drag from it.

“Thought I woke ye up already. I wasn't particularly quiet.”

“Oh,” Connor says. He blinks at his smoke, then at his coffee. “Ye did. Was sort of soothing, dunno.”

Soothing.

The fuck does that even mean, honestly?

Nothing good, if that spark in his chest is any indication. It's nice and warm, creeping up like it has no business to, and it leaves him unnerved. Murphy clears his throat and stands, determined to find something to do that isn't watching the man.

There is nothing else to do, but still.

*

He exercises, they wait.

In the time in-between, Murphy obsesses over his brother who stopped flinching back since the secret came out, and it should feel like a win. He should be grateful not to be constantly reminded of Connor's changed behavior, and he would be—if it weren't for the question.

The buried one.

In the beginning, it's simple: What's the difference between Connor then and Connor now?

The answer is obvious, which means it's not the answer: Not showing affection through casual touches when before they'd touch all the time.

The answer stops being obvious when it stops being awkward, and the question evolves, taking days lost in a boring haze until Murphy can muster the energy to form the words: What's the difference between himself then and himself now?

The lie: He hasn't changed. Ignoring the new hole in his leg, he's been like he's been since forever. There's nothing new about him except for the consequences of the shooting, and for all his intents and purposes to blame the current shitshow on it, Connor told him that wasn't the—beginning.

For days, Murphy tries to wrap his mind around it, fruitless and earning himself a headache.

After he accidentally makes a raunchy joke and Connor laughs about it, carefree and open like he never is now, they grin at each other, and the question makes a leap in evolution like he hadn't thought possible. It's dangerous, he knows at once, stalling to think about it, getting stir crazy in the process and watching Connor grow lethargic with boredom.

When he ultimately tackles it, he rephrases the question until it's pure and harmless: What is the difference between them?

Their love.

Murphy spends days on the question, imagining every possible scenario of what Connor could say or do, of what could happen to him or both of them, that'd put an end to the love he has for his brother. He thinks about it until it's been weeks of his arse planted on the couch thinking _I love him I love him_ in an unerring loop.

Ashamed about having such thoughts while Connor lounges around bored enough to read through both cookbooks twice, Murphy tries even harder, both to exercise and to come up with an answer he already knows.

It's hiding in his mind behind a wall of decades worth of brotherly memories.

He needs Connor, and from experience, he knows he needs Connor more than Connor needs him. Maybe the difference between their loves isn't that big. Maybe Connor got it wrong, simple as that. It's not love-love. They're twins, it's bound to be intense between them, for fuck's sake.

It's normal.

*

Walking by, Connor throws a blanket over his lap and goes on to sink into the armchair, face pulled into a frown so uncomfortable it looks like he's fighting a stick in his arse.

“Connor,” Murphy says, making him look over. He forgets what the plan was. “Thank ye.”

“Mh.”

He didn't ask for a blanket. “For the blanket, I mean,” Murphy says desperately.

“Aye, all right. Quit yapping, I'm watching this.”

It's not normal.

Murphy pushes the blanket off, stands, and hobbles away. Connor's eyes drill a hole in his back, and Murphy decides to shower to chase off the sudden chill, though it's probably only in his head.

At least it's one way to kill time.

When he's done, he rummages for fresh jeans and goes back in to shave. The fog clings to the mirror, making it hard to get it right and not accidentally cut open his throat.

Which, even if it would pass the time as well, wouldn't be good.

The bedroom door opens. “I found cards,” Connor calls out. His footsteps come closer and his head appears around the corner, blinking through the fog and stupidly waggling his eyebrows.

“Grand.” Focusing on his face, Murphy frowns at the mirror until he realizes there is no further answer, and then Connor chokes on something.

“Sorry. I'm- Sorry.”

“The fuck for?” Murphy asks, dumbfounded.

“Didn't mean to interrupt.”

“I'm shaving, Connor.” Removing one's beard; a foreign concept to Connor - fucking apparently - because he's rooted in the doorway with his face on fire as if he caught him wanking. Actually, that's a good thing to say. “Why yer acting the maggot? I'm not wanking here, I'm fucking shaving.”

It isn't, in fact, a good thing to say.

Connor freezes even more than he froze before, and then he—reacts, and Murphy freezes along, witnessing the whole shebang; lips parting and pupils dilating, a forced swallow before Connor glances down.

At him.

Then he leaves.

Murphy stares, blinking at the empty bedroom. His skin tingles as if the look had been a physical touch, drawing his attention, forcing him to look for the mystery.

He didn't put on a fresh shirt. Murphy stares while something creeps up his spine. He didn't button up his jeans.

That's where Connor was looking, where it tingles now, complete with goosebumps and all.

Bloody fuck.

Murphy puts the razor away despite having done a poor job at shaving, mind stuck on the goosebumps. With the open door, the fog cleared from the mirror, allowing him to glance at himself and beholding his own shame as he takes care to close up his jeans. The hideous green of his boxers disappears like it should.

Connor saw that as well, didn't he?

No, Connor didn't only see. He looked at him.

Murphy grabs a random shirt. He thinks about the chill on his spine that wasn't entirely unpleasant, more a surprise than anything else, and as of yet, the goosebumps have to retreat as well. Like it was a physical touch indeed. He stands, hand on the cane while his mind blows with the possibility of—giving back.

Holding his breath does nothing, neither does counting to ten, twenty, thirty.

The repulsion doesn't come.

On some level he didn't know about, he's fine with letting Connor have this. Which means he could've spared his brother a lot of pain if he found out about it sooner.

But he didn't.

What he can do is try to set it right.

Murphy nods at the room, briefly glancing down to confirm he's actually dressed this time, and goes to find Connor, steadily losing his vigor when finding the knob proves harder than planned. Ready to let his fists fly, he walks through the house and finally spots him in the backyard. Again.

Set on waiting to at least give Connor the comfort of sorting his head while being alone, Murphy sits on the couch, mind reeling. He can't decide whether it's been a long time coming or whether it's an impulsive decision, but it doesn't matter. He doesn't care. If he had to list everything Connor did for him over the course of their lives, it would be a long fucking list, and now—now there's something Connor needs in return, something he can give to him.

What kind of person would it make him to deny that?

An arsehole at least. Maybe something worse.

Murphy sits and sits, smoking three cigarettes in a row, tongue burning and eyes watering, then Connor walks in with the most composed look on his face.

“Hungry?” he asks with a smile that doesn't reach his eyes at all, and the decision is made. Done and over with. Tolerating this look isn't something he can do any longer.

“Nah,” Murphy says, lost on how to start.

With slow steps, Connor comes closer. “What is it?”

“It's just that I thought,” Murphy says, looking at Connor's raised barriers, at his stiff movements when he perches on the arm of the couch, just shy of reach. “I ought to tell ye that it's okay. We can—try.” He looks at the floor, heat creeping up in his cheeks, warming him from head to toe until no reply comes, nothing, and a cool chill spreads out in him, raising goosebumps that are entirely unpleasant this time.

He looks up again.

Connor sits without moving, jaw clenched and face unreadable.

“Do ye understand what I'm saying?” Murphy pleads, heat and chill fighting as he slowly realizes Connor might think he's mocking him, making fun of his situation—

“Don't say it again, I heard ye just fine,” Connor says, voice quiet in an answer that isn't one.

If he wanted, he'd agree, wouldn't he? But he _knows_ Connor wants, that's the whole point.

“Murph, don't.”

“I won't, I won't,” Murphy says, trying for gentle to overrule the mighty urge to apologize for something he should not need to apologize for. He's trying to help Connor, to give him what he wants, where's the logic in refusing that? Where's the fucking logic in the hand on his shoulder, squeezing him like Connor means to calm _him?_

He isn't the one who's bloody gone in the head, refusing an offer to help.

“Murphy,” Connor says, quiet and calm enough to force Murphy to take a step back, to calm the fuck down, to accept Connor's decision.

It doesn't work. The lump in his throat swells to the size of a heart, leaving him breathless with something that's gone too quickly to make sense of it, and then rationality leaves him completely. “Will ye- Con, don't sleep on the couch again.”

Oh. Oh no.

The grip on his shoulder tightens, bordering on painful as Murphy sits frozen, incredulously shocked to find out about his mean streak, what the fuck, what the actual fuck, this isn't about him, it's supposed to be about Connor, he knows that, he knows and there he fucking goes again, asking something like this of his brother, knowing he—

“All right,” Connor says. He drops his hand and stands. “All we've got left are potatoes, and while I do love potatoes, we should hit up Duffy to get us something else. This is getting out of hand.” He stands for a moment longer, then he leaves for the kitchen.

Murphy holds it together until Connor is out of view. When he's alone, he sobs. Once is enough, and he's too horrified to consider whether it's out of shame or relief. He sits until he's human again, forcing each and every thought down until he can't hear them any longer, then he follows Connor into the kitchen to help prepare dinner.

*

Murphy lies in bed, too anxious to fall asleep. Apart from realizing he's the most awful person ever, the monster inside of him revels in anticipation of Connor sleeping beside him again and forces him to stay awake and witness it.

A thought in need of further examination, but he shoves it aside in favor of listening to the sounds next door where Connor clatters about despite the late hour. On normal days, he'd be out like a light already.

Not on days when he's asked to sleep beside him.

After refusing to 'try'.

There comes the shame again, bright and hot. Murphy closes his eyes, hiding until the door opens and Connor marches straight through and into the bathroom. Murphy strains his ears like a creep, overcome with the need to know whether Connor is praying again.

He isn't.

When he comes out, steam follows him and his hair sticks up in wet spikes, and Murphy is hit by a wave of disappointment to smell vanilla instead of—something else. What the fuck.

Connor sighs and turns off the light, face in the shadows as he stands without moving. Murphy doesn't need to see it. He knows him, he knows his brother. Connor wants him to confirm, he wants him to say it again, to take this on him, here in the dark, too intimate for any thoughts about love and differences.

Fumbling for the blanket, Murphy pulls it down; all the invitation he's capable of.

It's enough. Connor pulls his shirt over his head, rosary swinging over his chest, and climbs into the bed, oblivious to his oncoming panic attack.

Does Connor except him to do something now? He said no, at least some variation of it, but he gets in bed half-naked—

“G'night,” Connor says, quiet and close, and rolls onto his side, turned toward him like he did during the worst of his injury.

Didn't he sleep without a shirt back then as well? Didn't he fucking sleep shirtless all his bloody life?

“Good night,” Murphy says belatedly, closing his eyes as his chest-monster munches happily on the closeness and fills up the void again.

*

He wakes cold. The sun shines through the gap in the curtains and the faint smell of coffee wafts through the open door, and the reason he feels heavy and cold is the abandoned spot in the bed beside him. It smells like vanilla and like himself and a thousand other things, and only then, underneath it all, it smells like Connor.

It's a problem.


	8. Chapter 8

They establish a routine.

In the evenings, Murphy goes to bed first and leaves Connor on the couch or in the kitchen - depending on his newfound love for television and the day of the week - which frankly, Murphy couldn't care less about. What he cares about is that as soon as he finishes his business and gets into bed, his brother turns off the lights in the rest of the house and follows him. Never before that.

In bed, they don't touch despite cramming into awkward positions.

In the mornings, the time Murphy used to wake with his hand brushing against Connor's side or arm, once his chest—in the mornings now, he wakes alone. Connor gets up earlier to lure him up with coffee like he did ever since they had access to a bloody coffee machine; it's normal and unrelated to the current situation.

Having this normalcy should be enough. He shouldn't ask for more. He shouldn't want more, especially not if he can't even voice the _more_ in his head, so he promises himself not to poke at it, to let the thought rest and stop being greedy for fucking once.

*

When his resolve breaks, it's because of a book.

It sits on the small table beside the couch, very harmless and one of the few he hasn't read before. Bored out of his skull, he thumbs through it, slightly disturbed.

Subconscious mind art, the fuck does that even mean?

There's a passage, half of a chapter. It's about the significance of dreams, and not poking at the thought stops being an option.

*

Murphy sorts through their laundry, content and annoyed at the same time. Feeling at home in a house that isn't theirs wasn't in his plans for the day, but folding stacks of shirts and piling them next to their bed wasn't either. It's domestic. He doesn't like it.

He loves it.

“Will ye look at that,” Connor says in a tone that makes it obvious he's smiling, and Murphy finds his heart skipping a beat, fucking alarmed.

He turns, looking at Connor leaning against the door frame for who knows how long. Murphy clears his throat. “If I'd known ye'd be ecstatic about me doing laundry, I would've done it sooner,” he says, and to his horror, he can't tell whether it's a lie or not.

Still smiling, Connor flips him off and nods to the side. “Forgot something?”

The cane leans against the table, wood against wood. He hasn't forgotten; he had no use for it, hasn't in a while, at least for short periods of time. When he's doing two steps in each direction with something to hold onto in case he slips. But Connor smiles his stupid smile, and Murphy can't bring himself to say any of it.

“Aye, things are looking up,” he says on behalf of their sanity, then they smile at each other, sort of dumb, until his heart stutters again and he blurts out the first thing that comes to his mind, “Wanna go outside, take a walk?”

“Are ye up for that?”

Murphy shrugs, face warm. “Dunno, only one way to find out, no? It'd be good to get some fresh air again.”

“It would,” Connor says, eyes crinkling with his smile. Bloody handsome fucker. “Where ye wanna go?”

Murphy licks his lips, glancing at the window to guess the time. “Mass should be over,” he says cautiously. “We could go over to the church, no? We wouldn't even need to leave the property. Could be a good start.” He doesn't mean to make it sound like a question, but Connor's face fell somewhere in the middle of his speech and he needs him for this, there's no way he'll make it on his own.

And he doesn't want to anyway.

Connor sighs. “Fine, but just in case...” He aims for their bags and fishes out his gun, checking for bullets before he shoves it into the back of his jeans.

“Hand me mine, will ye?”

Connor doesn't, in fact.

“Connor.” Murphy glares at the back of his head, ready to slap his arse with the cane.

“There's no need for two guns. We're just gonna go around the corner.” Connor makes a detour for the keys, bustling busily like he thinks the argument is over.

“The fuck is wrong with ye?”

“Bloody nothing,” Connor says mildly. “Ye want yer gun, I get yer gun, but there's no _need_ for it, I'm telling ye. One gun is enough for going to bloody church.” Which sounds reasonable enough, but still isn't a good reason to indulge in Connor's obsession of—obsessing.

Murphy glares, reaching for the cane.

“Leave it,” Connor says. “Just leave it here, I'll help ye if ye need me to.”

Out of fucking nowhere, his chest-monster starts up a happy purr. Murphy covers it up by coughing. “Yer gonna bar me from doing things now? Do I have to, ye know, ask for permission if I want to take a piss from now on?”

Connor smiles. “That's my goal in life, I'm so glad ye caught up on that.”

They leave.

On a normal day with normal legs, the walk would take two minutes. As things are now, Murphy crawls along for what feels like hours, and by the time they round the building to get to the door, he's panting and sweaty and in a degree of pain he wouldn't have thought possible after all this time.

“Almost there,” Connor says, unhelpful, and advances to open the door, helpful. He peeks inside to make sure nobody's in there, then he lets him walk through.

“Yer gonna offer to change my diapers soon, I already see it coming,” Murphy mutters as he makes an uneven beeline for the backmost aisle. “And I'm not into that,” he adds, plopping down on the bench and not caring in the bloody slightest about insinuating anything. Enough is enough. There's a time for being careful and now he hasn't got the energy for it.

“What if I say please?” Connor says, waggling his eyebrows like a tool.

“All right, maybe.” Wiping his forehead, Murphy tugs his legs in to make room for Connor to squeeze past. “Now shut up, gonna talk to the Lord without these images in my head, thank ye very much.”

Connor snorts and drops to his knees, then they turn silent.

Willing his frantic heartbeat down, Murphy closes his eyes and focuses on his prayer. Connor's toneless mumble echoes quietly through the empty church, soothing as a cool balm on a hot wound, pulling him in until he gets lost in the familiar rhythm. He's missed this in a way he hadn't thought he would, even the heavy scent of incense - a former nuisance - turned into a reassurance that lifts his spirits and takes away some of the tension he's been living with for longer than he cares to admit.

They pray in peace, and even though Murphy takes his time, Connor isn't finished when he opens his eyes again, so Murphy sits back and watches him. There's only a small crease on Connor's forehead, nothing left of the heavy frown he usually sports. Murphy folds his hands in lap to keep from reaching out, focusing on the rough fabric under his fingers as his mind insists he's to chase that crease away. To smooth it out with his thumb, maybe.

The soft click of a door saves him from the trouble.

A priest stands near the altar. As he watches them, he obviously catches on about what kind of faithful people came to seek guidance in his church—if his huge eyes are any indication.

For a moment, panic clouds his mind, but the soft sounds of Connor's lips forming shapeless words continue unbothered and the priest simply walks over to the confessional box, gesturing toward it. Murphy shakes his head and the priest leaves again, going backward with steps careful enough, it looks like he doesn't want to startle them for reasons that have nothing to do with not disturbing their prayers.

He has to know, of course. He's part of the network, most likely the one lending his own house to the cause.

Murphy sits, wondering what impression they might give. No guns, no death following; two believers on the run doing nothing but occupying space.

“Ready to go?” Connor asks, head cocked as he rises from his knees.

“Do ye think we're supposed to do something? That there's a window of time in which we're expected to leave?”

Connor looks into the distance. The colorful windows highlight his face in a pretty shade of red, soft and glowing. “Dunno,” he says at last. “Why?”

Shrugging, Murphy grips the bench and pulls himself into a standing position. “Just wondered, is all.”

They make their way down the aisle and pay their respects. Murphy presses his lips against the cool surface of the statue, swaying in place until Connor steadies him by his hips.

“But yer not worried, no?” Connor asks before he steps back, hands ready to catch him again.

“I'm not,” Murphy says, glancing at the door. “Just about the way back.”

Connor winds his arm around his back, nudging his shoulder against him until Murphy grips it; a well-known position after all this time, and for all the shame he felt during the last weeks, now he can't be bothered.

They walk down the path to the house, almost by the door when Connor speaks up again, “We won't leave until yer ready.”

“Ye don't know their plans,” Murphy points out, unsteadily following him inside.

“I don't have to and I don't really care, either.”

Plopping down in the armchair, Murphy blows out a long breath and stretches his shaking leg as Connor wanders to the desk and starts to write down who knows what. Which is all right, he doesn't want to talk anymore anyway, but he's craving a smoke rather fiercely and there's no way he'll get up again in the next hour.

He stares at Connor, willing him to read his mind. Then he glares, watching Connor light a smoke, and reaches out as if his arm is four feet long and he could snatch it from his fingers. “Con.”

“Mh?”

“Don't leave me hanging,” Murphy says, sort of whining.

“Are ye pouting?” Connor blinks slowly. He reaches for the pack and stuffs the lighter in. “Ye could use yer words, ye know. I heard that helps.”

“Lies.” Murphy catches the pack mid-flight and lights a smoke before he leans back and makes himself comfortable. They're quiet for a while. Connor scribbles away on his piece of paper while Murphy is lost in diffuse thoughts, neither unhappy nor worrying for once.

Until his eyes land on the book.

It's still where he left it, of fucking course, harmless and not drawing attention to itself, and it turns his mind dark with thoughts again.

“Ye think,” Murphy starts, laying out the words. “Can I ask ye something? And for ye to not make a big deal out of it when I do.”

Pen pausing, Connor frowns. Then he nods.

“Do ye feel better?” Murphy fiddles with the lighter, glancing over. “About everything? Now that I know.” Nothing. He watches the smoke curl up, not even pretending he isn't avoiding Connor's eyes until he hears a quiet sigh.

“I can't say that I do,” Connor says, then the scratching of the pen starts up again.

It's awkward.

It's not enough.

Murphy clears his throat. “If that's the case,” he says, cringing as Connor balls his fist, “then why do ye think we had the dream? If it didn't matter in the end, didn't make ye—better. Or whatever.”

Nothing comes except for a heavy silence that forces him to take several drags of his smoke, and then the smoke is down to the filter and he has to stub it out, freshly out of options.

“Wanna do this now?” Connor asks softly, close to the dangerously quiet he gets sometimes. Murphy sits up straight before he's ready to look at him again. “All right,” Connor says. “Let's start with this: it's not a dream, it's a nightmare.”

“Changing the name doesn't change the outcome,” Murphy offers, snapping his mouth shut when Connor glares at him.

“It does, don't be fucking thick. Dreams can be wishful thinking, something we want, something that's on our mind. Nightmares don't have to make sense.”

Murphy swallows and reaches for another smoke without lighting it, tongue stale and burning already. “Dreams don't have to make sense either,” he says. Connor groans and Murphy raises his voice. “Well, it's the fucking truth, ye knob. Call it whatever ye want, but it doesn't change my question, does it?”

“And why do ye think I know why we have nightmares, eh? What kind of answer would ye like me to give?”

“Are ye being obtuse on purpose?” Murphy snaps, ready to shrink back and forcing himself to square his shoulders instead, glaring at his bloody thick brother who _lies_. “It's not about dreams or nightmares, it's about the fact that we both had it. Had, Connor, since ye don't have it anymore either, do ye?”

“I don't.”

That—was quicker than he expected. Murphy licks his lips, planning his next move while praying for a better outcome this time. “So ye agree it doesn't make sense? If there's nothing else ye didn't tell me, I mean. The only other time we shared a dream was pretty significant and I'd like to know the point of this one.”

Connor drops the pen and leans back in his chair with a look that could kill lesser men. Or maybe it's just his regular stink eye, it's hard to tell in the soft light. “What happened to us back then wasn't a dream, Murph. The Lord spoke to us.”

He got him. He fucking got him. “What makes ye think it's different this time?” Murphy asks, fighting a grin because he fucking won, this is it now.

“What's that?” Connor says, voice down to a harsh whisper. “Are ye fucking dense?”

The grin dies, leaving him raw. “I'm just asking, ye arsehole. How come ye don't want to make sense of it? Makes me think yer the one who's fucking dense.”

“Bloody unlikely, brother. I know all I need to know about this fucking mess.” Connor crosses his arms, eyes down on the table. “But it did mean something, yer right about that. It was a warning.”

“A warning.”

“Aye.”

Nothing comes and his head is empty. “Connor,” he says because he doesn't know what else to say, forced to sit through this without his cane in reach, without being able to ask his brother for help, without being able to fucking flee. This is so wrong, he doesn't know how it could possibly happen _again_.

“Murphy.” It sounds like a sigh. “Maybe the nightmare was supposed to warn ye as well, I don't fucking know, but I do know why I was warned and that I didn't fucking listen.”

Seconds tick by and he's none the wiser. “I don't get it.”

Connor groans and shoves the chair back with such force, it scrapes marks into the floor. “For someone bringing up the topic every other day, yer awfully fucking dense about it! Do ye think I didn't have one stray thought in all this time? That I didn't think about confessing- That I didn't think beyond that, how it would be after that?” He's trying for forceful, obvious in his angry face, but his voice breaks nonetheless. “Why is it that ye want me to say these things? Why the fuck do ye insist I have to lay myself bare all the time?”

That isn't his intention, not at all, he wants— “Ye thought about how I would react?” Murphy whispers. How he'd react in an _approving_ way.

“I didn't choose this. I wouldn't have told ye.”

“I know. I know that, it's just-” Thoughts are racing through his head, all of them too fast to make sense of. “Ye thought about all these things, so ye think the Lord warned ye? About stray thoughts.”

The fuck did Connor think about that'd justify a divine intervention?

“Obviously,” Connor says, and obvious as well, he's done talking. He stalks into the kitchen without turning back.

Staring at the door, Murphy sits without moving. His palms are sweaty.

Clearly, Connor thought it all through. Fucking clearly, Connor accepts the reality of his sin as a universal truth, something not worthy of discussion. Something only worthy enough to be punished for.

Breaking apart over bloody thoughts.

*

His first attempt at participating in anything other than sitting around the house all day; pushed into the shadows for a dark cloud hovering over their heads because he can't keep his mouth shut. He'd like to strangle himself for it, but he can't bring himself to move more than necessary, too occupied with his head exploding in eight directions at once, all of them fucking vague.

He wants to know so fucking badly.

He can't ask, not if he wants to save the remaining parts of their friendship, but he can try to imagine how it went down.

It's improper and questionable, and he has no other choice.

Murphy waits until they're in bed, Connor a wooden presence beside him, then he lets his thoughts loose.

If Connor thinks the Lord punished him for it, he must've not only imagined a negative reaction—which he got. Maybe, one day, Connor lay in bed as well, acting out conversations in his head, imagining himself confessing, playing through possible reactions. Maybe Connor thought about him smiling instead of harassing him for weeks until he forced the answer out in the open, and then nothing, nothing at all.

Maybe, only once, Connor thought about how it'd be if he had reacted even more agreeable. Not only smiling but embracing him.

Connor wouldn't have let himself linger on it, but as a fleeting thought, it's possible.

Maybe it was even more than that, something that truly asks for punishment; outright agreement, that he'd close his arms around Connor and then maybe- maybe—

*

The night is never-ending.

Murphy stops trying to fall back under when the dark gets chased away by dull gray and there's no longer a point to it anyway. Behind him, Connor breathes into his hair, body firmly plastered against his back.

It's possible Connor wakes like this each morning, and it's not something he's going to find out about. Connor is secretive that way, and given the burden he carries around, he's allowed to be, so Murphy slides out of bed, covers Connor back up, and limps into the bathroom. It feels good to be the first one up even though he doesn't plan to make it a habit, but he would feel better if he'd chosen to be awake instead of being forced by the thoughts in his head.

The question is back. It's been there all fucking night, hassling him: What's the difference?

By now, he's looked at it from every angle. If he wants to make sense of it, he has to go beyond his usual methods, maybe even step out of his comfort zone, and that could be achieved, he guesses, by understanding his own limits. Maybe.

Murphy steps into the shower. He's still not sure what exactly Connor wants from him, but he pushes the thought away in favor of—the difference between them. Finding his bloody limits should tell him a lot about Connor's as well. It can only mean good things, things that'll have them move forward.

Aye, that's how it will be.

Murphy reaches for the soap and the chest-monster wakes up, quiet and waiting.

The first step is easy; things he's always done. The problem lies with the intention, because while they always touched each other and looked at each other, it's never been a conscious decision. There were barely any boundaries or privacy, but that's just how things _were_ , not how they chose to act them out deliberately.

On the other hand, Connor's reaction as he interrupted him shaving wasn't deliberate either.

Fuck.

His cheeks heat even though there's no one around to see it, and then he rolls his eyes and starts with a picture of Connor in his mind; their old apartment, a cluttered table and his brother standing bowed over it. He's wearing jeans, no shirt and no bloody socks—an image he's seen hundreds of times and never thought anything of it.

If he's to test his boundaries, he could walk up to Connor like he did even more times, thousands - ten-thousands - but instead of bumping against him with his shoulder, he could stop behind him and reach for his back.

That's weird already, even if it's just a hand on warm skin. Weird, but okay, which means he could go on to slide his hand over the expanse of Connor's back, right to the place his brother always talks about wanting a tattoo without ever actually getting it done. He could cover the space, drawing imaginary lines like Connor did to him during the massage.

Murphy clears his throat.

That's okay as well.

For the sake of his experiment, Murphy forces the Connor in his mind to stand still even though he's extraordinarily sure Connor wouldn't stand around and let himself be petted, then he moves on, hands jittery even in his imagination.

He could touch Connor's shoulder, stroking over his arm down to his wrist, maybe going so far as to circle his fingers around it, feeling the tiny bones. Did he ever do that? He can't remember. If he did, then not with this intention, not with stroking up again to lay his hand on Connor's neck. The Virgin Mary would be in reach of his thumb, standing stark against his skin. Maybe he could feel Connor's pulse underneath.

That's okay too, so there's no worry about going even further, possibly even leaning in, inhaling. For doing it on purpose, it'd be—intense. With his nose brushing against Connor's neck, fine hair would tickle him, and maybe he'd see goosebumps rise, right there in front of his face.

The water pours down, rushing loudly. Murphy angles himself away to let it flow over his back instead of his front, uncomfortably sensitive rather suddenly.

So far, so good. He can live with all of it. It's fine.

There are a few minutes of hot water left, then he's going to stand in the cold, none the fucking wiser.

He should make imaginary-Connor turn around and put his hands on his chest.

Lack of shirt or not, he's done it before. It's an old fucking hat. Letting his hand roam freely isn't; it's something else entirely, and he can't even begin to imagine the look on Connor's face, so he refrains from glancing up even in this made-up scenario and stares at his imaginary hand instead, feeling the imaginary coarse hair.

 _Fine_.

Murphy braces himself against the tiles, forehead pressed against his arm, against the cross. He should move on. He has to go through with it, there has got to be a bloody moment when it's not okay anymore.

Crowding closer it is, leaning in again, this time toward Connor's front, his throat, hiding the Virgin Mary underneath his fingers.

Not enough.

He could very accidentally brush his nose against the soft underside of Connor's jaw.

That's—okay, that's okay. Murphy throbs, squeezing his eyes shut. That's just fine.

If he's pressed this close, it's only a small step, one tiny movement, and he could put his lips on Connor's neck, maybe even parting them so he could taste, possibly. Or to move upwards, dragging his lips over Connor's jaw, stubble rough under his touch, catching on his lips until sparse hair gives way to even more stubble growing on his chin and cheeks and—

“Fuck,” he says. He stares at the tiles, water burning in his eyes. His cock throbs.

It insists.

Murphy grips himself, stutters out a breath, and dives right back into the scenario because he still hasn't found out about his limits. Right?

Right.

Tasting is fine, he knows that. Connor would taste strongly there, on his neck. Like him and like sweat and their shitty soap, but mostly like _him_ , and if the taste was on his lips already, he could—but that would be too much, wouldn't it, imaginary or not?

Murphy licks his lips.

It would be in his mouth then, the taste. On his tongue.

If he outright kissed Connor, the taste would be even stronger, possibly overloading his senses.

If he parted Connor's lips and licked—bloody fuck.

Murphy works his hand, panting through the fog. If he licked those lips that used to part in a grin or a smile so often, if he did that, Connor would let him. He'd open his mouth and let him lick inside, and they would- they—

Murphy comes, head bowed and legs shaking. “Christ,” he breathes. “Jesus Christ, fuck.”

This is it. Or maybe it's not it since he still doesn't know about his limits, but at least he knows he can tolerate a great fucking deal, and they can move on from here on.

He finishes up, hurrying out of the bathroom with a towel around his hips.

On the bed, Connor gives him a look.

“Connor,” Murphy says, grinning. “Guess what?”

Connor doesn't, in fact, start to guess. He's giving him that look instead, a weird one, one that says he knows what he's thinking—which can't be, he's got no fucking x-ray vision.

But Connor knows.

Where his brain used to be, there's fog. Maybe it's still from the shower. “Connor,” Murphy says again, jerking in surprise when it comes out small, what the fuck. He wanted him to know, this is his bloody chance—

“Aye,” Connor croaks, frozen on the bed despite fleeing at every other opportunity, gawking at him with his face flushed and his eyes dark. His face is soft, and Murphy wants to cry.

If he's aroused just from making up scenarios about what he can possibly endure doing to his brother, Connor must've thought about this a million times. A million times while he was within arm's reach, close but never close enough to satisfy him.

Maybe he wants to cry _for_ him, Murphy thinks, panicking. He can't find words. 'Just got off fantasizing about ye, thought ye should know'. Bloody fuck. His chest-monster roars and he stands unmoving, and any moment now, Connor will snap and leave.

Murphy coughs and pulls his towel loose. He coughs again, fucking awkward, and puts it up in his hair in the pretense of rubbing it dry, leaving the rest of his body on display.

It's cold in the early-morning air. He's still wet from the shower, and Connor's eyes are on him while he's bare, presenting himself after doing something so intimate even they never shared it. Goosebumps prickle up everywhere as Murphy glances down at himself, at his cock, still flushed and not quite soft yet.

This is one of the dirtiest things he's ever done.

It doesn't feel as right as he thought it would.

The bed creaks. Murphy yanks down the towel as Connor marches toward him, eyes flitting between his face and something behind him Murphy has no interest in seeing even if it was a Saint himself. Or herself.

Heart hammering, Murphy prepares, muscles tight and excitement rising until Connor is within reach, pretty and scarlet and—

“Move,” Connor says.

The word doesn't mean anything.

A hand lands on his shoulder, rough against his skin—shoving at him. Murphy moves. “But-” Connor rounds him. “What?”

Connor walks into the bathroom. The door shuts behind him, leaving him to stare.

They're twins. Maybe Connor is as slow as he is to understand the possibilities. Or fuck it, maybe Connor thought he was teasing him, even if that would mean he thinks pretty fucking low of him. Everything is possible with this thick brother.

Murphy gets dressed and migrates into the kitchen to busy his hand and mind with brewing coffee. When Connor comes in, his hair is wet and he carries an air of nonchalance about him that has Murphy hand him a cup at once. He leans back against the counter. “We can try,” he says, somewhat proud to manage it without a stutter.

Connor glances up, a strange mix of anger and gratefulness on his face. “We can't,” he says, and then they drop the topic, though he isn't clear on how that happens.

During breakfast, Connor rambles on about the need to call Duffy to rise up against their shortage of tomatoes and detergent before he moves on to the actual shopping list he wrote, and Murphy chimes in, eventually, because there's nothing else to do.

*

They take a walk.

For half an hour, Murphy manages to hold it together, then he grips Connor's shoulder and links their arms to share his weight. Dressed in disguises, nobody pays attention to them, and with his cane, he looks like a bloody cripple anyway, making it less suspicious to walk this close.

“Ice cream,” he says, hypnotizing the sign from afar.

Connor eyes him from the side, very much not looking at his face but at his leg instead, at the way he started favoring the good one even more during the last minutes. “Ice cream,” he confirms and steers them toward the entry with a determination reserved for battle.

As soon as a table is within reach, Murphy sits with a grunt and stretches out his leg. “Strawberry.” Connor hovers until Murphy squints up and uses the movement to angle himself toward the sun.

“Good idea,” Connor says roughly. “Ye look like a vampire by now. Need yerself some tan.”

Behind his shades, Connor won't see it, but Murphy glares anyway. “Yer not looking all golden anymore either.” Which is a shame, now that he thinks about it. The paleness he got going for him works to some degree, but on Connor, it looks ridiculous. He's about to state the fact, but Connor already wanders off to the counter.

They eat in peace. It's sunny, there aren't many other customers about, and even though his leg hurts somewhat fierce, it's still one of the best days he's had in a while.

“This is nice, no?” Murphy says when he finished his cone, smoke in hand and eyes on his brother, drawn in without being able to look away. It's weird, but Connor's face is also weird, pulling into a grimace as he leans back in his chair.

“Aye, it is.”

“Something poking ye?” Murphy asks, tittering. That's what Connor gets for insisting the gun goes in the back of his jeans instead of the front.

Connor graces him with his stink eye. “We're in public.”

“So?”

“So? We're in _public_ , Murph. Just quit it.” He's—flustered, and Murphy's eyes widen in alarm, thankfully unseen. He wasn't trying to flirt, just to bicker a bit and enjoy the bloody sun.

“Does that mean I'm allowed to tease ye when we're alone?” he asks instead of taping his mouth shut or back-flipping into the sun or maybe simply sliding to the ground, dying.

“For fuck's sake.”

Face hot, Murphy looks at where Connor stowed his gun. He can't even see it from here, of fucking course, but still. It draws him in, probably a sign of brain damage. “Was just teasing,” he mumbles, mortified with the whole thing even though he fucking started it himself. The fuck is he even doing, flirting with his own brother when Connor so clearly turned him down earlier? He doesn't even want to do it.

And why the fuck did Connor turn him down in the first place?

Murphy sighs and stubs out his smoke. “Don't think I'll manage the whole way back,” he says instead of everything else, exhausted just from thinking about it.

Connor nods, planning, never questioning his word on it; something Murphy knew all his life, yet it still leaves him in awe sometimes. “We take the bus, one or two stops,” Connor says. “I'll take yer weight the rest of the way.”

“All right.”

Behind his shades, Connor smiles. Or maybe he rolls his eyes. Probably both. “Want another one?”

Murphy licks his lips. “I fucking do,” he says even though he doesn't particularly want to, and watches on as Connor gets up without a single fuss to order another cone. When Connor comes back, he sits and smokes and watches him eat, and the eye-roll-smile never leaves his face.

*

Back at the house, simultaneously ready to call it a day and half-dreading to go to sleep, Murphy mills about on his painful fucking leg, pretending he doesn't notice Connor keeping unusually quiet all evening. Another argument is coming, he can fucking smell it from afar.

The feeling sets him on edge, hovering over him like a stifling cloud until they're in bed, lying side by side.

“Murph.” Connor never lies on his back. Now he does, and Murphy doesn't want to look at him.

“Yeah.”

Nothing comes.

Murphy turns his head. Connor stares at the ceiling with a fragile look about him, all the tension drained from his body so it looks like if he touched his shoulder or held him too tightly, Connor would splinter apart. Like nothing holds him together and he's whole by willpower alone.

Swallowing, Murphy forces himself to look on.

This, right there, is his fault. He put that look on his brother.

“Why do ye keep asking for something ye don't need?” Connor asks the ceiling. “Why are ye making this hard for me?”

It sounds like a genuine question. It sounds like Connor asks him to make him understand, and Murphy can't. He can't because he doesn't know the answer.

There is no fucking answer.

The silence stretches, poisoning the air until it's hard to breathe. “That isn't my intention,” Murphy says at last, trying to sound sincere because he fucking is. This is the only truth he knows, but it's a truth nonetheless.

For the longest time, Connor lies without moving. When he finally does, it's to turn on his side, facing him like he always does. The fragile look isn't gone, though he looks more at ease than a few moments ago as if his fucking nonsensical answer helped him in any way. As if Connor hadn't already known that he isn't hurting him on purpose.

Murphy closes his eyes and falls asleep brooding about the answer.


	9. Chapter 9

Connor is miserable.

He's being a stubborn arse about it by ignoring that Murphy's memorable adventure in the shower proved he's bloody fine with supporting him in whichever way he needs, that's what he does.

Murphy sits, plopping down on the coffee table and helpfully blocking Connor's view. It's been a particularly bad day; Connor went from rigidly standing in the kitchen to sprawling on the couch with his body so loose, it looks like he's trying to advertise himself—which is probably not the case. But still. His face is flushed, and Murphy has had quite enough.

“Are ye having a stroke?”

“We can try,” Murphy states as loud and clear as he can manage, eyes wide to will the thought into Connor's brain.

Connor sits up. “Can we now,” he says, and there's a mean fucking twist to his mouth. “Ye've got no idea what yer saying.”

“I do, I wouldn't ask otherwise.”

“For fuck's sake, Murph,” Connor says, voice gentle and body warm, so close Murphy smells coffee on him, smoke, the fucking vanilla.

He swallows. “I don't understand why ye won't let me help.”

“I don't need help,” Connor says, sinking back again with a sigh. “It's not worth it, just give it a rest.”

“How can helping ye not be worth it? That's bloody insane.”

“Help.” Connor looks away. “Murph, ye don't even see it, do ye?”

He doesn't. He would if Connor fucking explained it, which doesn't seem like it's going to be the bloody case, ever. Murphy scoots forward, the wood digging into his thighs. With Connor pressed back into the couch, they're still not close enough. “Explain it to me, aye? I'm not- I'm trying to help, is all.”

“Brother,” Connor says, eyes down on his knees. “Ye've got no idea what yer saying, that's the problem. Yer trying to help, I get it, but ye don't see- Yer trying to _help_ me, this isn't- Ye don't get it.”

“I won't ever if ye don't stop being so vague about it,” Murphy mutters, and Connor won't look at him again.

“Attending to me isn't worth burning in Hell over.”

Murphy rears back, gripping the edge of the table, knuckles tight until it hurts and his head clears again. He blinks through the shock, both about the words and the fucking unexpected pain they evoked while Connor shakes his head.

“Don't argue about this.”

“I'm not,” Murphy forces out. This isn't about him, he bloody well knowsthat, but his heart has its own ideas, squeezing painfully from seeing the tightness on Connor's face, his need to flee and his apparent inability to do so. “I'm not arguing,” Murphy says again, then he stands and puts some distance between them.

“Don't go like this.”

With his back to him, he can't see Connor's face, and Murphy thinks, deep down, it's better this way. “I'm not going,” he says, matching Connor's quiet tone but not the strain in his voice so he doesn't pick a fight about bloody commands coming his way again.

“We can do something,” Connor says. “Go somewhere instead of sitting here talking in bloody circles, no? Going out is good. Fresh air.”

As long as it serves as a distraction, he'd be fine with a meteor crashing through the ceiling right now.

“We could go down to the park?”

“Woods,” Murphy says, the smell of earth already in his nose, dull sounds of gunshots echoing back from the trees in his ears. He turns around. “I could use some practice.”

“Shooting?” Connor raises his eyebrows. “Ye don't need to practice that.”

Murphy shrugs, thinking about his cane. “Never been out of practice for this long. My leg may stay bad, let's face it, and if I'm not as agile as before, I need to shoot even better. There isn't much room for errors, is there?”

“Don't ye think yer planning a little too far ahead?” Connor asks, trying for friendly, but with his hands clenched and his face pulled into a grimace, he looks like a maniac.

Murphy tries to catch his gaze. “It's been long enough,” he says, then he clears his throat, cringing before he even says it, “Eunice flushed the crooks out weeks ago.”

There's a pause, no longer uncomfortable. It feels like it always did when they were sitting in stoic silence, and Murphy barely manages not to cry in relief.

“Suppose ye forgot to mention that.”

“Didn't think it was that important if we're not able to do something about it anyway,” Murphy points out. “What's the point if I'm not ready, right? But I'm ready now. Won't do any good to keep putting it off.”

“Ye know ye don't have to, no?” Connor mumbles. “I won't try talking ye out of it, obviously, but Murph, ye have to be sure and the intel has to be clear. Otherwise I'm not risking it, doesn't matter what ye say.”

“Not risking it?” Murphy grins. “Now, that doesn't sound like ye at all.”

Connor grows still, lips parting in an answer that doesn't come. His face is flushed, and Murphy reaches out so fast he doesn't have time to think about it, ruffling through Connor's hair and retreating again before his brother can evade the movement.

They go.

Dressed in hideous clothes that leave him itching for his good old pea coat, Murphy manages to stay on his feet for a whole hour - apart from the bus ride - before he makes himself at home on a tree stump, lights a smoke, and watches as Connor picks up the practice in his stead.

The possibility of his leg never regaining full mobility may be high, and as of now, squatting is just as impossible as sprinting more than a few steps or turning fast when he forgets to put his weight on his good leg, but if this impairment is to stay, there's no use in wailing in self-pity.

And he still has his good aim.

He's ready and it's going to be all right, and in the life their living, Murphy guesses, idly watching how Connor stills before squeezing the trigger, in this life of theirs, he shouldn't ask for more.

*

Back at the house, Murphy dismantles his gun and shoves it into his bag, earning himself an unwanted glimpse of the picture underneath the bullets. It sets him off, the harmless proof of simpler times. The proof of now being _harder_ times without either of them being able to do anything about it.

The thought clouds his mind until he forces himself to take a shower and clear his head. When he gets out, it's better already, then he spots Connor lurking in the living room with a look like he's trying for nonchalant. He fails, badly.

Murphy reaches for the hem of his shirt to confirm it's still in place and not revealing anything again. To put that look on his brother. Who doesn't say anything. “What,” he prompts.

“Just waiting for ye to come out of the shower,” Connor says. “Yer hungry?”

“I was about to go make something.” There's no answer, so Murphy blinks. “Do ye want something specific or...?”

“Nah, I'll do it. Ye rest.”

Water tickles on his brow, raising an itch. “I can bloody well cook, I'm not that tired,” Murphy says to put up at least a token protest, heart stuttering as Connor shakes his head before he even finishes. He's herded toward the kitchen.

“Don't be stubborn. What do ye want, lasagna? Steak? Pizza?”

“Dunno,” Murphy mutters. “Ye decide. I'll peel potatoes or whatever.”

Connor snorts and steers him away from the fridge. “Why can't ye let me do ye any good, mh?”

That hangs between them for a moment, slightly awkward though Connor doesn't seem to notice, with his head buried in the cold of the fridge.

“Just thought ye might want to shower as well,” Murphy says, rather lame, and winces as soon as his mind supplies scenarios of Connor misunderstanding him yet again—

“Is that yer way of politely informing me that I'm rank?”

Murphy snaps up his gaze, alarmed, and finds Connor grinning and frowning at the same time, looking like such a tool he can't stop a groan from leaving him. “Yer so weird, ye know that? I can't fucking believe we're related, actually.”

“Well, me neither.” Connor turns away again, rummaging through the cupboards. “Let me do this, aye? It's not as big of a deal as ye want to make it, 's just me trying to be nice,” he says, and his voice is too soft and too deep at the same time, putting the hair up on Murphy's arm at once.

He nods, then rasps out a vaguely affirmative noise when Connor doesn't see it and proceeds to stand without a goal until Connor, at fucking last, decides to order him to peel potatoes after all. He's forced to listen to Connor blathering on about who knows what, and it's domestic and nice, a peace-offering maybe, or a sign of Connor admitting to something.

Or maybe not, maybe all Connor wants is indeed to do something nice.

He's bloody tired of second-guessing everything that comes out of Connor's mouth in addition to being stuck in the house, having to use the cane, relying on people to bring them fucking food—and yet he can't remember the last time he felt content like this.

After dinner, Connor sets out to ruin his good mood, naturally. He's a fucking twat, so he calls Duffy to ask for a new car, confirmation of the intel _he_ gave him, the hiding place, the perimeter; everything he bloody well told Connor in the woods.

Giving him the finger, Murphy hobbles off and throws himself on the bed, ready to lie around until the dawn of time. He aches for a good night's sleep as if he hasn't slept in for months. He's losing his routine, and with his injury healing, there's no bloody reason to drag on like this.

There's a dull sound in the living room, then Connor swears under his breath.

Murphy gets up to peek around the corner, finding his brother on the floor—and giving the coffee table a kick. He's pulling a face, and Murphy's question gets stuck in his throat, fucking unexpected.

Crunches, that's what Connor is doing; lying back, rolling up, lying back again. He bumped his head on the table, is all. There's nothing extraordinary about it, he's seen this picture hundreds of times, even Connor hitting his head is a too familiar sight. And the shirt clinging to his chest, almost see-through with sweat.

His fingers tighten around the cane.

With each movement, the muscles under Connor's shirt shift, and with each harsh exhale, his chest heaves as it should, and it's weird, and then Connor lies flat on the carpet, knees raised and arms above his head, and Murphy looks away. His mouth is dry. Connor is probably likewise thirsty, with how he's pushing on. Even the muscles in his legs are flexing, shorts bunched up high on his thighs, showing his old scar, skin burnt by the iron.

Murphy takes a step back. Then he takes another step, another, and flees into the bathroom. He sits on the closed lid of the toilet and hides behind his hand for a while, mortified without any fucking reason.

Something is buried inside of him. It has teeth, fucking sharp, gnawing at him just as badly as the need to talk about his thoughts that are constantly adrift and working on giving him a headache.

There is no one to talk to. No one to confess that Connor declines his periodic offers, that he hurts more after each rejection despite knowing none of this is about him. He can't tell anyone that his eyes linger sometimes, that he knows the colors of Connor's briefs because he looks at his own brother in those short moments when Connor is half-dressed, jeans barely pushing up over his hips.

Murphy sits up and goes straight to bed pretending he doesn't wish for someone to sway his thoughts so he doesn't have to visit the place, that hollow in his heart where he thinks he knows.

In the beginning, it might've been different, but ever since Connor kept refusing and he kept asking nonetheless, it becomes clearer by the day that he isn't doing this for Connor. On the contrary; he's being selfish again. He wants for himself, he wants—he _wants_.

The chest-monster knew for a while.

Or maybe it's just him, his own twisted feelings.

Murphy shuts his eyes, pretending to sleep as Connor crosses through on his way to the bathroom. The shower starts up, leaving him floating.

Maybe it's not him at all. Maybe he's projecting, trying to lift the sin from Connor to make it his own just like he promised.

It doesn't matter. If he's going to ask again and Connor will reject him again, it will be personal, not something he can pretend he did out of sympathy or the need to support his brother.

It will be personal and it will hurt.

*

No one comes to his rescue.

For days, Murphy keeps waking once per hour like bloody clockwork, thoughts on fire with an idea so vague he pretends again, this time that he doesn't know it's there at all.

It stays through boredom and praying and walks, and it stays through target confirmation, forming the action plan, and Duffy supplying them with yet another car. It runs fucking wild until he breaks, at bloody last, and lies still until Connor gets out of bed and walks off toward the kitchen.

Just in case, Murphy waits a moment longer, then he hurries into the bathroom, shoves his boxers down before the door falls shut, and almost falls on his arse in the process.

Bloody fucking cane.

The door has no lock and he can't put anything in front of it, but he needs to figure this thing in his mind out. Right this second, not later - they'll leave for the execution - and not after that either - they'll fucking move to a different house. He needs privacy for this, he needs to know Connor won't know about it until he _wants_ him to know.

Murphy grabs his toothbrush and steps under the shower to get started sooner rather than later.

It's possible, maybe even likely, that he got it all wrong. Every scenario he played through involved what he could do to Connor, the lengths he'd go to ensure his happiness—or at least to diminish his unhappiness. He didn't consider the other way, not once, because he's apparently as thick as Connor wants him to believe.

There's got to be another test, a replication of what he did but him at the receiving end instead.

Murphy clears his throat, inhales toothpaste, and coughs. Then he puts the toothbrush away and tries to come up with a battle plan.

There's nothing new or particularly exciting about Connor touching him, but his memory presents him with a best-of-show anyway, starting so suddenly he sways against the onslaught. He doesn't need a reminder of their non-existing boundaries, but for the test—he has to pretend Connor would do it on purpose.

It's weird to even think about Connor doing something like that, but he has to get through that, right? Right.

Right, then. He starts with back-touching, because the correct order is important, proved and tested, and it's going to work now as well, and then everything will be fine.

So, Connor's hands on his back, digging into his aching muscles.

Ever helpful, his mind supplies a perfectly preserved memory of the massage, including the roughness of Connor's palms and the light strokes of his fingertips tracing the tattoo. Connor's hands on his back have been familiar territory even before the bloody massage. This is all right.

For good measure, Murphy clears his throat again, then he takes a quick look over his shoulder to confirm he's alone.

Connor's hands on his chest aren't familiar.

They're unfamiliar apart from short claps that never lingered, and if Connor were to touch his chest indeed, his palms would be just as rough as on his back. Or maybe like they were at the end of the massage; gentle, stroking him rather than kneading his muscles. One hand could splay over his heart like Connor often does.

Not while he's shirtless.

Murphy blinks through the water, fingers flexing with the urge to put his hand where Connor's are, in his head. It'd be too crass. It's already horrible enough to think about it, imitating the imagined caress just goes too far.

Murphy nods.

It takes imaginary-Connor's thumb to rub over his clavicle, then Murphy caves and place his hand on his chest, right where Connor's would be. He lets it wander, pretending it's Connor's hand as he rakes through the hair on his chest, catching on a nipple without lingering, lost in his strange fantasy until his hand stops over his bellybutton.

Murphy whines, alarmed, and splays his fingers. The tips get buried in coarse hair and he stops moving altogether.

This is too far, the thought alone of Connor finding out where his thoughts wandered off to is too much, too embarrassing, fucking _wrong_ , and his heart can't take it anyway, it's about to beat out of his chest and nothing good can come out of this, ever.

Connor is in love with him.

Murphy swallows, glancing at where he's been filling out since imaginary-Connor's hands touched his chest and where he's been throbbing since approximately 30 seconds after that.

The result is clear, further experimentation unnecessary.

He slides his hand over his cock, fingers curling, hiding it from view.

Maybe Connor found out he's in love with him while his own hand was wrapped around his cock, thoughts straying horribly. Maybe Connor did the exact same thing, and thoughts are fucking free, they're _free_ and he will pray about it later, but this needs to be done now, there's no way around it.

There are plenty of other ways, but he has no interest in any of them.

Murphy starts stroking, staring down at himself, watching his hand. If Connor stood behind him, if he pressed real close, it could be his hand touching him.

The image in his head merges with what he sees, fucking obscene even though the hand isn't right. Connor's is bigger, rougher. It would cover more of him, and when Connor would stroke him, he'd be gentler about it while being merciless at the same time. Murphy knows, he thinks, clenching his teeth around a moan. Despite never once thinking about it, he _knows_.

He's seen Connor hit on lasses for years, he's seen Connor's hands on slim waists and his tongue buried between painted lips, and he's seen his hands wander under skirts while he caged them in with his body.

He's seen him fuck, once.

Murphy bows his head, throat tight, and speeds up his hand.

Connor wouldn't let up even if he got close, pleading with him to make it last. He'd simply take control of the situation, gripping him firm, smearing over the tip—

There's no fucking way Connor found out about his love this way. Even if he did fantasize, he wouldn't have thought about it like this. He'd imagine himself getting off, not this, never, it's useless and doesn't matter and Connor wants for himself just like he does and they're going to sleep in _one bed_ after this and—

Murphy comes.

This time, he doesn't swear as he graces the tiles with his come, which means he wins.

He's shaking, but he got his result.

Thinking about touching Connor all this time ago worked greatly, rekindling a need he hasn't given much thought to lately. Thinking about Connor touching him worked greatly as well; he made a special reservation in Hell for an immoral sin committed in thought, and it also makes him want to go out and show Connor again.

He doesn't, though he does leave the shower.

Now isn't the time, they've got things to do, after all. Guns to clean, hours to drive, people to shoot. This—epiphany won't go away. It'll be there when they come back from work, and then he'll show Connor.

In a more appropriate way, if he can think of one by then.

*

At the first red light, much to the disdain of every other person trying to use the bloody road, Connor makes them switch places because he thinks he knows Murphy hesitated for a split-second before hitting the gas.

He did not, in fact, hesitate because of his leg, but Connor is a mule and there's nothing to be done about it.

They spend the next hour in stoic silence during which Murphy tries rather hard not to direct them off-course just to piss Connor off, but then the sun comes up fully and with his goal in mind, he gradually relaxes again. He's going to tell Connor and it won't fucking do to pick a fight before that.

With a nod, Murphy reaches for the bag on the backseat, fishes their sunglasses out, and grabs the smokes.

“Let's go over it again,” Connor says, fingers tapping against the steering wheel. “And give me one.”

Murphy does, with a grin. Then he snatches it back, lights it, and offers it again. Connor glares at the smoke, but he does take it, right when Murphy remembers that Connor said he doesn't want to know. He said it loud and clear. Or—not loud, but definitely clear.

“The plan,” Connor prompts, smoke dangling from his lips.

Murphy sighs. “Listen,” he says. “Listen. Ye want me to say that we leave the car at a maximum of two minutes walking distance so even I can make it on foot. We look around the corner this time before we actually go around the corner. Ye break down the door cause I'm a cripple. We go in and shoot the fat guy and the rest of the crooks. We take their money. We put coins on their eyes. We pray and then we leave.”

“I'm gonna call Ma,” Connor moans. “Get her to confirm she bloody well dropped ye on the head once and for all. There can't be any other explanation.” Murphy blows smoke in his direction, somewhat pleased when Connor sighs. “Don't think I didn't notice yer fucking tone. Ye realize I'm not making ye say it to grate on yer nerves, no? Yer a fucking knob if ye think so.”

“Anyway,” Murphy says. “What ye don't want me to say but how it's still going to happen: we're gonna do it like we've always fucking done it. There's no reason it shouldn't work, ye _knob_ , because the only other time one of us got shot—well. That was Noah.”

“Why is it that ye have to be so difficult? It's something in yer genes, I'm sure.”

“Then it's also in yer fucking genes,” Murphy says, eyeing the map in his lap. “Left in two miles. And I'm telling ye that it's gonna be fine. I'm fucking ready and yer fucking ready, with how ye kept working out.”

That isn't what he wanted to say.

“What now?”

“Nothing.” Murphy clears his throat. “They're evil men, Con. They shot me and ruined a perfectly good leg in the process.” He stops, sorting his thoughts. Then he shrugs. “We shot men for less.”

Connor drives on, making a silent turn. “I'll tell ye something, all right? If I hadn't known ye'd be a pain in my arse about it, I would've gone and shot them ages ago. That's how motivated I am.” He glances over, unfriendly. “And what ye said wasn't what I meant at all. I don't want to be a bloody hero in this, doing all the work. I want ye safe, and with yer injury, any number of things could happen when we don't plan ahead. It's just different now.”

“What, ye didn't know we were mortal before?” Murphy flicks his smoke out of the window. “I thought ye got the message when we both got shot, but maybe that was just me.”

Turning his glare on him, Connor makes it last long enough to be dangerous, then he huffs and looks back at the road. “I know that. I know, Murph. Getting shot myself was one thing, but this now- I don't care what ye have to say about it, but at the first sign of trouble, I'll get ye out of there.”

Murphy gawks, fucking baffled because he was worried there, for just a moment, whether his plan to tell Connor would mean he's being selfish again, and here his brother is, being just as selfish as he is and apparently not ashamed about it for a second. Murphy lights a new smoke, clouding the car even further and making his eyes fucking burn with it.

Blinking, he looks out of the window and watches the gazillion trees fly by. A never-ending mass of it from what he's seen so far, and still so different from the trees back home. It's weird. He never particularly cared about trees, and now he longs for them, for green, for grass.

“I meant it as a warning,” Connor says eventually. “Not to warn ye, per se, but just so ye know what may happen.”

Murphy turns, speechless as Connor produces a smile that makes him look like he's gone in the head.

“I don't need yer consent for saving yer sorry arse now, do I? If I think it must be done, I'll just take ye.”

One second they don't, and in the next his cheeks burn, throbbing with heat and shame. Murphy tries to give something back and ends up sputtering, and then he focuses on smoking, fumbling with the bloody stick like he's never smoked in his life before.

Jesus fuck, if is this how Connor feels all the time, he has his utmost respect.

“All right?”

There's a miniature grin on Connor's face, he swears he can see it. “Fine,” Murphy rasps as he stares at those lips, the slight curve and the barely-there shine of them until Connor frowns again and he can't be sure of the grin any longer.

They drive the rest of the way in silence, which thankfully gives him enough time to refocus his thoughts away from confessions and showers toward something that at least resembles the mindset needed for the task at hand: shooting people.

After stopping for truly awful pizza, they arrive in a shady part of an industrial complex and park the car as planned. One last smoke meets its end on the pavement, then Connor steps up to him with a serious face and goes so far as to put his hands on his shoulders, swaying him with the unexpected contact.

“Ready?”

Murphy nudges his chin against Connor's hand until Connor cups his head and leans their foreheads together. It's nice. He'll tell him for sure. Connor will agree, of course he will. He's touching him like this, touching him freely. Fuck, he missed this. Him.

“Murphy, are ye?”

“Yeah, I'm ready.”

They get going.

No one guards the door. Which makes sense since they shot the guards during their last encounter, but it's—boring. Connor uses his beloved rope to fasten it around the door handle, then they share a look and get into position on each side of the door. The walls are thick enough to cover them as Connor pulls at the rope and the knot holds firm as the door flings open.

Someone shouts.

Murphy shoots around the corner before he even rounds it.

The fat man goes down with the first hit, the boss needs two bullets, then he drops dead as well, slimy hair and all.

On the other side, Connor grapples with someone, hitting the man with the holster of his gun instead of shooting him because—he has actually no idea about his reason.

“What're ye doing?” he asks as Connor deals out a rather nasty hit. The man crumbles to the floor.

“We need someone for the actual execution since ye blasted the other two already.”

Murphy shrugs, uncomfortable.

They pull the unconscious man into a sitting position and Connor pokes his shoe into his back until he comes to again, sort of whimpering.

“You don't have to,” the man says. “You don't have to do this. Take the money, the safe's right there. I've got the keys, I'll give you the keys, you don't have to-”

“Quit yapping.” Connor looks over and raises his gun, waiting until Murphy draws level with him.

_In Nomine Patris, et Fílii, et Spiritus Sancti._

At least it puts some money in their pockets.

*

He doesn't think much of it when Connor squirms on his seat; it's been a long day, and since Connor insisted on driving 'so we don't die, Murph', he's probably more tired than he lets on.

He doesn't think much of Connor's hiss either, not when they make a stop to change clothes in the middle nowhere and it's dark enough he loses track of his gloves until Connor fumbles for the flashlight.

By the time they reach the house, Connor hasn't said a single word. He parks in the backyard so the car doesn't show from the street, then he goes ahead to open the door and walks inside. There's blood on the back of his shirt.

“Connor,” Murphy says, elbowing the door shut. “Yer bleeding.”

Connor walks on. “Bastard pulled a knife on me,” he says. “Would've needed faster reflexes if he wanted to stab me to death. That's why he's dead now.”

Mind stuck on the word 'knife' and the hours of Connor not mentioning any of it, Murphy limps after him, leg weak and shaking after the bloody long day. “Do ye need stitches? Lemme see.”

“It's fine. If ye get started on packing while I clean up, we're gonna be out of here in no time.”

Murphy pauses, staring a hole in Connor's retreating back. “Ye don't want me to see,” he says. “What the fuck for? How do ye plan to tend to a wound on yer back?”

“It's a fucking scratch, Murphy. Ye start packing now, leave me alone for a minute.”

“I'll do shit,” Murphy snaps, rounding him as fast as he can manage to get a look at his dumb face. “If it's no big deal, then show me.”

Connor looks away. “Only looking, aye?”

“Bleeding, Connor. Ye are bleeding. What if it's deep enough to need stitches?”

“It's not,” Connor says, then he pulls his shirt over his head and turns around. His smell hits Murphy's nose at once, just shy of needing a shower after the action today, and alarming enough he has to remind himself of his plan to look at the injury.

Murphy turns on the light and squares his shoulders.

The gash on Connor's back is a long wavy line as if the knife slipped on his shoulder blade, but it's not as deep as he feared. It's not even bleeding anymore - of course it isn't, after the long drive - but Murphy reaches out to probe at the edges anyway.

Connor jerks away. “Didn't ye fucking hear what I said?” he snaps. “Go pack our fucking bags, I can take care of it myself.”

His hand is still outstretched, limp in the air. Murphy drops it, stepping back. “Ye want to be like that - fucking fine, but we're not gonna leave tonight,” he says, yanking at a clean shirt to cover being hurt. Behind him, Connor leaves. Murphy stands without moving and watches in numb detachment as his plan goes up in flames.

He truly thought he might tell Connor. Make him happy, making himself happy in return. Now fucking this.

On the other hand, Connor forbidding him to take care of his wounds is the ultimate horseshit and mourning the loss of the opportunity he thought he had isn't what needs to be done now, so he allows it for only a moment, then he drops the shirt and marches into the bathroom to glare at Connor twisting in an impossible angle to look at his own fucking back.

“Ye don't get a fucking hint, do ye?” Connor mutters.

They stare at each other through lowered eyebrows until Connor crumbles with a sigh.

“Fine, but make it quick.”

He tries to.

After confirming the gash is indeed just shallow, Murphy cleans it with a wet towel, trying bloody hard to ignore how Connor flinches as his fingers brush against his skin rather than when he gets too close to the wound. “Hurts?” he asks into the silence, though it comes out quiet and more like a statement than a question, and Connor's answer consists of a huff.

Murphy huffs back, searches for the antiseptic cream, and smears it along the cut trying to be even more careful this time. When he's done all he can, he sighs and places the cream on the counter.

Apart from his tense shoulders, Connor gives no indication of being a living person. There's a stillness about him that spills into the room, surrounding them and poisoning the air. The possibility from earlier is still there, vague in the distance, and Murphy knows it's not right, but he has to establish contact or—he'll die. Or something.

A hand would be too much, but knuckles should be fine, he reasons, swallowing. He brushes them over Connor's spine, over the hard knobs and the goosebumps rising on his warm skin.

“Don't touch me.” It's a whisper.

The air is sticky and Murphy can't take his hand away.

“But I want to,” he says, heart in his fucking throat because he's unable to make Connor understand, to make him _see_. “I want to touch ye all the time,” he mumbles, splaying his fingers as Connor sways into him with a movement so small it's hardly noticeable. “I wanted to before all of this. I always want, I-” Murphy swallows, then he drops his voice to a whisper and lays himself bare, “I'm starving, Con. Just let me-”

Connor curls forward, choking on an awful noise. He turns, eyes wet and wild and fucking pleading, taking Murphy's breath away with their intensity. “Don't. I can't fucking take it. I will beg if that's what it takes, I have no control, I- Please don't.”

Breathing is a conscious effort. Connor stays rooted to the spot, forcing him to be the one to step away. Maybe it's a test or maybe Connor really can't bring himself to step away - it doesn't matter. Nothing in him wants to accept it, but he's left without a choice; he's not going to force this.

He fucking won't, not when Connor looks like he does now, holding himself back with a strength that seems inhuman while he doesn't even _know_ about him yet. Fuck, he's strong. He's so strong and good, managing to hold it together for who knows how long while Murphy is needy enough to outright plead with him.

It must be because they don't have the same reservations.

Murphy looks down, eyeing the rosary on Connor's chest. It moves with his every breath, stark in contrast to his skin. Dully, Murphy remembers he planned to pray over his epiphany, and then he hasn't done it after all. Despite it and no matter where his thoughts stray, his faith hasn't faltered for a second.

Where Connor thinks them one and the same, he differentiates between these big themes of his life without a question.

On one side is his faith in the Lord; giving him strength and comfort, a way to live by, a Calling nowadays. On the other side, there's this: his ever-growing love for his brother.

The Lord made him this way, there's no need to worry about consequences when this is something that runs so deeply he feels it in his bones. It's in his blood, in _their_ blood, and Connor—he sees it differently, but the Lord doesn't work like that.

He won't punish them, simple as that.

“Let me,” Murphy says into the thick air, slowly raising his hands to curl them around the beads resting on Connor's skin. He rubs over them, feeling warmth rise in him, then heat when his brother allows the touch. No denial, no refusal. Connor stays in place, lips parted and breath hot against his face.

It's all he needs to know.

If he pushed hard enough, Connor would let him do as he pleases. He'd endure, and maybe he'd want him back, but ultimately, Connor would only comply because he was pressured into it. It's a gut-wrenching thought, and it's not something Murphy could live with, taking this last resolve from his brother just because he can.

“It's because I said I want to help ye, no?” Murphy whispers, shaking, but only on the inside, even after Connor gives him a nod that's barely there. “But I didn't know, Con. I didn't. It's just half of the truth, do ye know that?”

“I do,” Connor croaks. “It makes no difference.”

Murphy waits, but nothing else comes, and his heart is heavy, just as his mind and his arms as he lifts the chain from Connor's neck. He leaves the bathroom and places the rosary on the bedside table, next to his own. Where it belongs.

They don't talk anymore.

Despite the cut, Connor comes to bed and lies on his back, tense like a piece of wood.

It's obvious he thinks something is going to happen even though Murphy takes care not to touch him anywhere. They lay side by side until Murphy feels him vibrating in place, body turned away while he stares at him from the side as if he believes the act of removing his rosary had ulterior motives behind it.

It had, in a way, but he didn't fucking do it to hide Connor from the Lord's view or whatever it is Connor cooked up in that thick brain of his. It's to help Connor be unafraid again, maybe.

It felt right, that's why he did it. Just as right as thinking about rolling over, rolling over _him_ , pressing Connor into the mattress, taking what's offered.

He could, he knows.

But he doesn't.


	10. Chapter 10

The bed shakes. He's being hit, there's an _earthquake_ —

It's Connor, gasping.

Unable to see, Murphy fumbles until he bumps against warm skin, an arm maybe, then he rolls over and stares through the darkness. “Yer okay?” he whispers, blinking at Connor's outline while he lets his knuckles stay where they are just to have a point of contact.

“Didn't mean to wake ye.”

“Ye didn't,” Murphy says, nonsensical. He stomps down on a huff lest Connor thinks he's huffing about him, staying still as Connor shifts closer.

“Who sent the nightmare, what do ye think?” Connor whispers.

Swallowing both his first response and the question of why Connor is thrashing around because of a dream they don't have any longer, Murphy tries to think of an answer that won't end in another fight, and then it takes too long and Connor goes on already.

“It wasn't the Lord. The Devil, Murph. It was the Devil.”

It wasn't. It was not.

“How do ye know?” Murphy whispers, lost because his brother shivers like he never does and because the topic makes as much sense as the sun not rising in the morning.

“He deceives and he tempts,” Connor says, voice small before he swallows, close enough to be loud in the quiet of the night. He starts to turn away. “It's the only thing that makes sense.”

His eyes have adjusted enough to see Connor reaching for his rosary. Before he has time to think about it, Murphy places his hand on Connor's chest and presses him back down. “Don't,” he says. “Ye don't need it. Ye don't need it now.”

Connor's skin is sticky under his fingers, overly hot while his heart beats so fast that it doesn't make sense when Connor submits. He lies back so readily as if he believes him to actually have the answers, and it breaks his fucking heart. He was the one to take his last defense from his brother.

This is on him.

“If it's the Devil,” Murphy croaks, pressing his fingers down over Connor's ribs, “If it's the Devil, I'll fight him. Ye don't need yer rosary to protect yerself. I'll do it for ye.”

Connor's laugh sounds like a bark. “Don't be like that,” he presses out, then he rolls on his side, trapping Murphy's hand between them, right over his madly beating heart. “No one can fight the Devil, ye know that.”

“But I will. I'll fucking fight him, just watch me.” He would, of course. He'd lose, but that doesn't mean he wouldn't try.

It doesn't matter.

Connor offers no more words and even as his heart slows, he isn't okay. Not by a long shot, not when he allows Murphy to crowd into his space and slide his arm around him, mindful of the cut on his back. Connor lets him without a word of protest, and when he finally releases the tension he seems to cling on to forever, Connor breathes out a small sound and goes boneless.

Not entirely, but it's enough. He can't lower all of his barriers, it's obvious in the way he holds himself, bringing out a fucking sting in Murphy's eyes that comes with an urge to _protect_. It raises to unbearable limits, but Connor wouldn't approve, not for a minute, so he keeps his mouth shut and holds on tight until Connor withdraws and they're back to something that resembles normal business.

Antsy and on edge with something he has no control over, Murphy fights bloody hard not to get lost in his thoughts throughout the morning. Two smokes in a row, then another right after, and it's good enough he's able to pour himself a cup of coffee. He burns his tongue in the process of drinking it too fast, sitting moodily and trying to ignore the bloody energetic way in which Connor packs their bags.

It's stupid, feeling nostalgic about this house. Some of his most painful memories are connected to even these rooms, but this is also the house where he learned so much about himself, about his brother. Crucial epiphanies he wouldn't miss out on for the world.

“Don't forget the bullet,” he says as Connor walks by with the last set of bags, taking a moment to be embarrassed about not helping at all. Maybe he can still blame his leg and his inability to properly bend down.

Connor pauses to glare at him, then he walks on.

“What're ye glaring at me for?” Murphy calls, but there's no reply, just the sound of the trunk opening outside. With a sigh, he gets up and walks through the house one last time, confirming everything is in place and saying goodbye.

In private and without Connor knowing because he isn't a sap, all right, they haven't spent this long in one place since they lost their flat, is all. It was a home of a sort, at least for the time being.

“Get moving!”

Murphy does, nodding to himself as he locks the door behind them. “We in a hurry?” he asks when he plops down on the passenger seat, and then he gets slapped with the map for the trouble of trying to do small talk.

Back to fucking normal it is.

“We're already late, please try not to be too dense.”

“That isn't my fault, though,” Murphy says even though it is.

Connor makes him choose a random direction to go.

“We should've talked to Duffy before. I'll miss having an actual house to stay in.” He lights a smoke, eyeing his brother in question until Connor shakes his head. “And did ye? Pack the bullet?”

“The one I dug out of ye or the ones where ye hide that picture under?”

The smoke burns in his nose. Murphy rolls down his window, watching the street fly by. “Both,” he says at length, and he can't manage to come up with a reason to be embarrassed that Connor found it. Maybe he knew it was there all along or maybe he saw him pack it that first time, back at the apartment when everything was flooded.

Maybe, though unlikely, he looks at it sometimes as well.

*

When the sun sets, they stop at a diner and sit down at a dingy table in the corner, keeping both the door and the car in view just outside of the window. It's nice to be out in public again, to listen to the conversations surrounding them while the smell of greasy food floods his nose. Murphy finds he even missed those ugly fluorescent lights hanging in each and every diner in existence.

“Yeah,” Connor says.

The waitress comes to take their orders, and Connor plasters his charming smile on his face, directing it at her and making something in his stomach churn. Murphy looks away and mutters his own order.

Connor kicks him.

“What?” Murphy says, looking up. Connor's smile is gone, replaced by his usual tired look, skin unhealthy pale in the harsh light, and last night he woke up with a nightmare about the Devil and— “Con.”

Connor groans and keeps his mouth shut until the waitress comes back with their drinks and leaves again. “No heavy talk now, I'm not in the mood.”

“I wasn't gonna-” He huffs. “Fine.” There are no pressing matters to discuss anyway - apart from informing Connor he had a good wank in the shower while imagining fucking into his hand. Which is, maybe, not an appropriate thing to say in public.

Or anywhere.

“No need to look all grumpy either,” Connor says, smiling with one side of his mouth.

“Is there a codex somewhere? A list of things I'm allowed to say and do and think?”

“Aye, it's called normal behavior.”

Murphy kicks out, lazy, and then he lets his leg stay where it is, partly to take the strain from it due to sitting in the cramped car all day, and partly because it's just nice, feeling Connor's next to his own. To his surprise, Connor doesn't move away even when their food arrives. It's not as uncomfortable or weird as he imagined it would be, out here in the open—under the table and hidden from view, but surrounded by people instead of hiding away in their temporary house.

The urge to be close to his brother is as intense out here as it was back there, and Murphy can't decide whether that's a good or a bad sign, so he focuses on his food first, then Connor's fingers. They twitch around his glass like they do when he's craving a smoke, and Murphy sits, unable to take his eyes off and unable to shake the urge to reach over, squeeze them to feel them twitching underneath his own.

“What's with ye?” Connor's voice is quiet, a bit rough.

Murphy lets his eyes roam over what he can see of him. “There's something I meant to tell ye,” he says because he left his brain in the car. “But I didn't have the chance yet.”

Someone laughs, carefree. Connor looks at him without blinking.

“Dunno if ye want to hear it, though,” Murphy says, heart sinking even though he knows and he knew and he has fucking known how this will end.

The twitching gets worse. Connor leans back in his seat and clenches his jaw. “I know.”

“What?”

“I already know. It's not important. It doesn't matter, Murph.”

Murphy nods with a lump the size of a fucking building in his throat. “That's yer decision, then?” He scoffs, bitter. “How come yer the one deciding anyway?”

And how the fuck does his brother think he knows in the first place?

“Because I'd go mad if I let myself think about it,” Connor says, then he drinks the rest of his coke and fishes out his wallet. “Now we change the subject.”

There it is, the hurt he expected. Worse than he expected, because Connor already knows. He always knows about him. Maybe Connor fucking knew before he did himself, but it doesn't matter if they can't talk about it. The situation won't resolve itself and nothing will _ever_ get fucking better.

“What yer saying is that ye want us both to be miserable—or actually, ye want me to _join_ ye in being miserable,” Murphy says, eyes on the crumbs on his plate. “I don't see a point in that.”

“What I want, Murph, is to pay, get in the car, and find a bloody motel to stay in. The rest isn't my fault, don't make me out to be the villain here.”

“But-”

“Fucking Christ,” Connor hisses, glancing around for anyone who might listen before he crosses himself, fingers lingering around his cross. “I don't want to hear any more of this. How is it that ye can't understand that simple concept? We won't speak of it again or so help me.”

They pay.

Murphy stays seated, staring at the wall while Connor goes out for a smoke, a dark shadow in his peripheral view. He's going to have to test the 'or'-option. Or so help him indeed. If Connor thinks he'll let this rest while fucking hurting all over for being rejected, he has another thing coming.

It won't happen, simple as that.

“We never got around to getting yer present done,” Murphy says as he joins Connor outside. The air is cold against his face, the sun long gone behind the horizon but not hidden enough to mist their breath. It's a cool relief against his overheated cheeks, and it's fine to be needy, very obviously so, when it's dark.

He will not live with this.

“We don't have to.”

“We do.” Murphy lights a smoke and glances over, steeling what's left of his nerves. “I want to. We're gonna have to wait until Duffy or whoever shows up anyway. Plenty of time and nothin' to do.”

Connor evades him to stare across the parking lot.

“And it's yer present,” Murphy adds, quiet, hurting somewhere deep. He thinks he's supposed to feel ashamed about being so needy, but at some point, maybe when he finally dragged it out in the open only to realize Connor knew all along, his ability to feel shame packed its things and left. It's nowhere to be found, not even when Connor sighs and turns his half-smile on him.

“Can't say no to that now, can I?”

Aye, he could. If he wanted to admit putting a tattoo on him would involve too much touching for his liking—but that's not something Connor is prepared to do. Murphy knows his bloody brother as well, and he knows the face he's pulling when something eats at his barriers.

“It's decided, then,” Murphy says, trying for chipper and flicking the rest of his smoke into the dark. “Wanna get going?”

Connor sighs again. “Yer quite a handful, brother.”

That's—well. He shouldn't, really, nothing good can come out of it.

“I am,” Murphy rumbles. “More than a handful, actually.”

Connor freezes, then he chokes after several seconds to think about it. Murphy grins, insane, and gets back into the car.

For the rest of the drive, Connor stays skittish, flustered as if that stupid joke meant anything. Even when they reach a motel that looks at least halfway decent, he stays behind in the car, quiet and weird.

In the parking lot, Murphy lights a smoke and feels sorry for himself. This is what he gets for flirting with his own brother; awkwardness like they're thirteen again, ready for their first dates.

Maybe it's because Connor knows his behavior looks like he could be persuaded if Murphy worked hard enough. That if he flirted enough and insinuated enough, he could have him. With all of those ten brain cells Connor has to focus on such matters, it makes sense to be skittish then.

Murphy stalks into the office and asks for a double bed.

When they haul their bags inside, Connor doesn't mention it.

*

Fast asleep, Connor is curled around him from behind. It's so unusual for him to wake first, Murphy doesn't know what to do with it. This is a confirmation he didn't need to have; Connor cuddling up to him in sleep without ever mentioning it because he flees the bed second he's awake.

With a sigh, Murphy peels out of his arms and goes to take a shower, thoughts drifting in lazy circles around what he needs to buy before they can start on the tattoo so he doesn't have to think about Connor's arms around him.

They're nice arms. Connor has nice everything's, if he's honest, and Connor knows about it as well, which makes him intolerable.

Before, at least, when dating was something to be done, not only to be remembered.

He should buy breakfast. Aye, he should. Starting the day with something nice - something Connor usually does for him - is a good plan.

Murphy changes in the dim light, then he limps through the room in search of his wallet, increasingly anxious as Connor's breath switches from deep and regular to clearly awake without saying a word. Murphy glances over his shoulder and forgets to be anxious as soon as his eyes land on Connor's face.

It's a familiar look, one Connor sported regularly back in their old apartment. Even before that, and only ever when he was disappointed that his private time had been interrupted; when Murphy went out to buy smokes and came back too early or when he woke up and Connor was still in bed. The look was always accompanied by a flush on his face and a soft groan, and that one gets swallowed now, he sees it fucking clearly.

His blood rushes down, leaving him dizzy and fucking burning, and Connor doesn't even seem to mind. He looks right back at him.

“Show me,” Murphy says.

That wasn't the plan.

It's the worst plan in existence and there's no chance Connor will do it. He talked about the Devil and not wanting to talk about them ever again, and he isn't disappointed about being interrupted, he simply lies there, probably hard under the covers, staring back at him—

“Connor,” Murphy rasps because he doesn't know what else to do and because his legs have forgotten how to move.

The sheets rustle, moving too slowly to be an accident. Bunched at his side, they leave Connor exposed, flat on his back, arms at his side and nothing left to anyone's imagination.

Murphy hurries over, tripping over his shoes and climbing on the bed in record time. He scoots right up to his brother without making contact, just kneeling next to him and letting his eyes roam over what he can see as long as he's allowed to do it.

It must be uncomfortable to strain so hard and obvious and prominent and _impressive_. In his tight briefs. Maybe that's why the muscles in Connor's thighs jump as well. Or why his chest rises rapidly without saying a bloody word.

“Let me touch ye.”

Jesus fuck, no—

“Nah,” Connor says gently.

There's no way Connor expected him to say anything else. He knew it was coming, of course he did, he laid himself bare, laid himself bare for _him_.

“Please,” Murphy says, cringing. He fists his hand into the blanket to keep himself from reaching out, throbbing between his legs, partly out of shame again. It's back, of course it is.

“No.” It sounds fucked out even though he's sure Connor didn't touch himself yet.

Murphy glances up, swallowing, and watches Connor's tongue drag over his bottom lip like a fucking tease. Cruel, that's what it is. Fucking uncalled-for if there's no fucking reason for fucking any of it.

“Murph, I don't want to.”

“But ye do,” Murphy croaks, hard and mortified at the same time. “Don't be like that, aye? Just lemme- I know ye want to. Don't be like that.”

Connor breathes out a sound, then he turns his head and looks at his rosary on the bedside table.

“Don't look at it,” Murphy stresses, fucking insane, reaching out to put his hand on Connor's chest. Connor's heart stutters under his palm, he can clearly feel it—he can't, he wishes to, he wants to put his mouth there. “Don't look at it,” Murphy says again. “Just let me-”

“Ye are my brother,” Connor says.

“I'm yer twin.”

Connor's face shuts down, body vibrating under his hand until Murphy takes it away and covers Connor's mouth instead. Breath stutters against his sweaty palm. “I'm sorry,” Murphy says even though Connor is the one being cruel, and bows forward, kissing his own hand like Connor did to Rocco that one time. Then he climbs off the bed and puts on his shoes.

Ink. They need ink and needles and thread.

Connor groans. He presses the heel of his palm against his cock, massaging the hardness that has stayed all the while.

“Ye've got to be fucking joking,” Murphy cries—plans to; he croaks because he's pathetic.

“I'm not. Go on now, I won't do anything.” Connor breathes out a laugh, deep and unfamiliar, shooting right into his cock. “Ye can go, Murph. It will go away on its own, I won't do anything with it.”

Murphy turns away, only just remembering to grab his money, and stalks out on wobbly legs and without looking back because—Connor wouldn't lie, would he?

In the car, it takes him the longest time to will down his erection even though he's in public - a fucking sinner, that's what he is - while Connor's words run through his head in a constant loop.

Connor said it like it's a rational thing, like it's necessary to explain he wouldn't touch himself instead of simply telling him to fucking leave him alone. As if the thought of doing it anyway, while he's there, has crossed Connor's mind before—despite the fact that just the fucking night before, he told him to never speak of it again.

_In the Name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit; Amen._

*

Murphy opens the door and marches through. “I need to know two things and yer gonna tell me.”

Head buried in the paper like it's the most interesting thing he's come across in forever, Connor freezes. The color hasn't left his cheeks despite the hour it took to get everything they need, including breakfast.

Murphy drops his bag on the table, right on the paper. “Ye said ye wouldn't want to talk about it again—well, ye phrased it really fucking dramatically, and this morning-”

Connor groans.

“This morning,” Murphy says, “I didn't start shit. That was ye, and I need ye to tell me-”

“Murph-”

“Quit yapping, for fuck's sake.” Murphy plops down opposite of him, staring at the space between his eyes because Connor keeps evading him. “I need to know whether ye will bring up leaving again if I—if I keep being like that. Like I am.”

Connor looks up, mouth open. With the flush that will maybe never ever leave, he looks fucking pretty. And a bit thick. “Leaving was meant as a punishment for me, not for ye,” he says, voice quiet and doing things to his insides he should probably meditate over.

“That means ye won't leave?”

“Aye, and if ye weren't how ye are, then I wouldn't—I wouldn't, ye know. I know how ye are. I'm fine with how ye are.” Connor cringes and hides behind his hand, and Murphy decides, randomly, that he loves him.

“Good to know,” he says, sort of tittering. “So, did ye decide where ye want the tattoo?”

There's a pause, awkward even though they should be over anything resembling awkwardness by now. To fill the silence, Murphy unpacks the bag and takes a sip of his coffee. It's lukewarm and tastes exactly like one thinks it would out of a machine that probably looked ancient even before they were born.

“Somewhere on my back,” Connor says slowly. “That was all? Yer big question? Whether I'd wanna leave cause ye get a bit handsy sometimes?”

“One question about leaving and one about the tattoo.” Fucking handsy—he begged to be allowed to touch his fucking cock, that's what he did. But all right. “And how are we gonna fit the other tattoo on there if ye want this one on yer back? Or did ye change yer mind about that?” Murphy adds, disappointed even though their plans for the shared tattoo weren't even plans, just vague ideas.

“I haven't.” Connor stares, fingers tapping a fast rhythm on the dingy table. “I don't fucking care, do it somewhere else. Murphy-”

“Chest?”

Closing his eyes, Connor breathes in and out again, dramatic as fuck. “Not on my chest.”

The image materializes in Murphy's head anyway; kneeling over him, looking down at his shirtless brother, the needle piercing the soft skin on his belly, smoothing away the ink— “Leg.”

Connor bites into a doughnut, chewing like a mule. “It's supposed to be a symbol to get recognized by. How would anyone see it on my leg, eh? I don't do shorts, brother.”

“Can ye maybe swallow before talking?” Murphy asks friendly. “And I take it that ye plan to present yerself with a bare back, then? That yer new look from now on?”

Connor stops chewing.

“I'm the only one who's gonna see it anyway.” He should eat something as well. The rest of the pastries are going to be as stale as the coffee. His face burns, or maybe it's his throat because fucking acid rises in it.

“Murphy,” Connor says, and Murphy finds he doesn't want to know even though Connor isn't _his_ , he can go starkers if he fucking wants to. It doesn't concern him.

“Is there something ye should be telling me?”

“I've got no idea what yer talking about.” They stare at each other. “Fucking- Murph, quit stressing around. I wouldn't do that, ye know I wouldn't.”

“Good.”

They finish their breakfast.

A new heat rises in him, adding to his cheeks and pooling lower. It's depraved, that's what it is, and he can only hold out until Connor shoves the last bagel into his mouth before it bursts out of him, “Take off yer pants and get on the bed.”

There's a fifty-fifty chance of Connor either laughing or exploding, but then he gets up muttering under his breath and Murphy turns away pretending to give him privacy while he actually does watch until Connor catches him. Then he sets up the equipment, his back tingling with Connor's glare, and walks into the bathroom to get towels and shaving cream.

When he comes back, Connor lies on his front, head pillowed on his arms. In this position, his shirt stretches up and leaves a bare line of skin right above the elastic of his briefs that should definitely be covered. Murphy wants to cry.

“Thigh, please.”

He nearly does, but then he gets a grip again. It's just a tattoo, for fuck's sake. He will be very professional and Connor will be pleased and they will live happily ever after.

Murphy nods, sets the items on the bedside table, and drags a chair over to the bed. As he plops down on it, he briefly laments his useless leg preventing him from kneeling beside the bed as would work best, then he wiggles the cream up to Connor's head before he smears it over his thigh.

Shaving his brother is as awkward as it should be. He's touching him like he meant to for a while, but it's still not intimate enough, too businesslike even though that's exactly what he should aim for.

Connor's thigh flexes under the razor. “Don't make it too big,” he says.

“Ye know the dimensions.” Murphy sits back, wiping the rest of the cream off. “I'll start drawing now, aye?”

Connor nods, face hidden by his arms.

He knows the design by heart - he was the one who wanted it as a tattoo, after all - so it doesn't take long before he finishes the outline with his back already hurting from bending over. “That was the easy part,” he says with a groan.

Connor cranes his neck to look back at him. “Sit on my legs. Ye can put the stuff on the chair.”

“Dunno.”

“Just use a pillow so ye don't crush me.” Connor looks away again, very pointedly flexing his thigh, and Murphy grabs a random pillow. Then he angles Connor's other leg to the side to make room for himself, bloody awkward, and _then_ he has to get up again to carry everything he needs from the small table to the chair.

Maybe crying isn't such a bad idea after all.

“Come now,” Connor says, “Don't make it awkward.”

“Too fucking late,” Murphy says, but Connor's grumpy tone does help, somehow. They've done harder things in their lives. This is supposed to be fun, so he will fucking treat it as such. “All right,” he mutters, climbing on the bed. He drapes the pillow over Connor's leg and sits, promising himself to stay in control for the next hour or two - however long it will take.

If he won't, everything will be even more strained than it already is.

With one last senseless nod, Murphy fishes the lighter out of his pocket and cleans the needle, then he winds the thread around it, uncaps the ink, and gets to work.

By the time the outline of the tattoo is done, the towel is already dark with ink and blood despite taking it slow. Too slow maybe, but Connor hasn't complained yet—Murphy guesses. Multitasking isn't his strong suit, and this is, after all, a matter of concentration.

“Yer good up there?” he asks, wiping at the reddening skin to get rid of the excess ink. Connor grunts, vague like he doesn't plan to elaborate. “Just say if it hurts more than it should,” Murphy says. “Or kick me, dunno. Make yerself known, whatever.”

“Aye.”

Murphy glares at the back of his head and at the shirt with the cut underneath, and then at the skin above his bloody tight briefs. Then he refocuses and goes back to work.

An hour later, he aches all over, but in a good way for once. Stretching his back until it pops, Murphy sits back and shakes his hand to prevent a cramp. “Almost done,” he states, smiling down at what's soon to be a full tattoo. “Only a bit of the filling left, shouldn't take long.”

Connor grunts.

Murphy ignores him and starts to widen the letters until the thigh under his needle twitches. “Almost,” he says, leaning onto it to hold it down.

It twitches again.

“I'm- Connor. I'm almost done,” Murphy mutters, smoothing the ink and blood away before he hurries on, unwilling to stop until it's done now that he's so close— “Jesus, all right, what is with ye?” For a moment, nothing moves, so Murphy descends and finishes the last line, barely managing to get the needle out of the way before Connor twitches again. “Done!” he cries, falling back with a sigh “Did it hurt at the end?”

Set on getting a fresh towel, he makes to stand and takes a quick peek at Connor's face in case he died.

“Is this a test?” Connor whispers.

Murphy jerks back, nearly falling as he climbs off his brother and his scarlet face.

“Are ye testing me? Murph, was it- Did ye send the dream?”

“Fucking what?” Murphy snorts, standing next to the bed even though the position puts his crotch on eye level with Connor's face and that isn't advisable. At least until there's no answer and his blood slowly runs cold. “What?” he says again, staring down at Connor's face, at the obvious arousal written on it. At his eyes, pleading with him as if that joke wasn't a joke at all. Connor looks like his _life_ depends on the answer. “What's that mean?” Murphy asks, dumbfounded. “What kind of question is that even?”

“Did ye? Murph, tell me.”

His throat closes up. He bows his head so he doesn't have to see the look in Connor's eyes. “Are ye fucking asking if I'm the Devil?”

Connor groans and it sounds indecent, it sounds desperate and wild, and Murphy doesn't want to know any longer. “I don't know, I just don't know,” Connor whispers. “Yer hands feel like it. They're burning.”

Murphy leaves. He gets a fresh towel and clenches his jaw and limps back inside.

“I'll burn for this,” Connor says, sure and not frightened in the slightest.

“ _We_ will,” Murphy rasps, but it's for nothing. In front of him, Connor moves like he's the sea, like a wave with a sound stuck in his throat. Then it happens again, slower this time, and Murphy's cock twitches back to life so fast it's painful.

How the fuck didn't he see, how the fuck didn't he notice the air changed so completely? Or maybe it didn't, maybe this is just Connor not hiding any longer that he's in the process of fucking the mattress.

Murphy sits back on Connor's leg. He cleans the tattoo, lost, and remembers he should look at it instead of the shirt clinging to Connor's back. His smell comes off strong. It must've been so for a while and he didn't notice, he was _focused_ , he didn't let his thoughts stray. Murphy wipes the tattoo until it's as clean as it can get, until he can't use it as an excuse any longer but can't make his hand leave either.

“Connor,” he says.

“I don't know.”

His fingers dig into Connor's thigh on their own volition, then again when Connor breathes out a sound so inappropriate he'll be fucking hard for days. His hand shakes, throbbing in time with his cock. “Ye'd let me, wouldn't ye?” Murphy asks, sad even before he forces himself to finish the sudden wild, awful fucking thought in his head.

He doesn't want to, but he has to, but his hand won't leave and his fingertips brush against Connor's briefs already, wiggling underneath.

But he has to.

“Look at me,” Murphy says, and it comes out as demanding as if he isn't losing it.

Connor cranes his neck, looking back at him out of dark eyes.

It feels like falling. “Ye would,” Murphy says, heart sinking until he's sure it left his body, willing the realization to go away, willing Connor's face to change.

It's useless. Connor looks aroused, he looks like he's halfway there already. He looks like he's ready for the taking, and he doesn't _know_. It's not on purpose. At last, he isn't cruel on purpose.

“I would what?” Connor rumbles, head cocked as much as his position allows it.

He took too long. Connor doesn't know.

“Ye'd let me take this off,” Murphy says, voice quiet, pulling lightly at Connor's briefs, feeling mean but not enough to outright show it. It's not Connor's fault, but he shakes in relief as Connor turns away anyway. “Ye would, no? Ye'd let me take off yer clothes and turn ye around. Ye'd show me.”

Connor breathes out a moan, and Murphy knows he could do it. Nothing would come from his brother to stop him, not a thing.

“Ye'd let me do that, Con?” It's not supposed to be a question, and then Murphy sobs without meaning to, fucking pathetic. “And then ye'd hate it,” he whispers. “And me.”

No moan, no denial, no movement. Connor stops breathing, frozen altogether because he's thick as fuck and he didn't know despite fucking asking him whether he's the godforsaken Devil, the fucking arsehole.

Murphy shoves Connor's shirt up and stares at the goosebumps rising in record time, at Connor's shoulders and his back, also moving in record time with his renewed habit of breathing.

Wherever his heart was, it took its leave, Murphy thinks, or maybe it didn't. Maybe Connor took it, sat his fucking arse on it, and crushed it.

He rubs his thumb through the sweat on Connor's lower back, and even now his brother isn't protesting. He lets it happen as if that thing between them doesn't concern him, as if it's not his decision that counts more, in the end.

As if Connor's No doesn't weigh heavier than his Yes.

“I hate ye,” Murphy says. All these months later and it still doesn't feel as good as it should. He leans down and presses his mouth against Connor's skin, sweat against his lips, the smell in his nose, way too intimate.

They never were this close. There's a reason for it, but he barely remembers.

Murphy smooths the shirt back down, gets up, and starts cleaning.

The smell is on his lips, then it's a taste. He licks his lips, then it's on his tongue and he adjusts himself in his jeans, horrified, and hurries into the bathroom despite Connor staring at him.

Later, he will look back at him later. Now is too early, he needs time to calm down and will his erection away and dry the sweat on his forehead and wash his hands of his brother.

And brush his teeth to get rid of the taste.

He does, hands shaking, and then he looks into the mirror and sees the flush on his face, and he brushes a second time, scrubbing until the last trace of Connor's taste disappears.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do hope I'm not posting this into the void.

Three beers, no dinner, and his thoughts run in circles, ending up nowhere and starting over at the same place while Connor sits all the way over by the table and stares at the TV without blinking.

Willingly committing a sin happens if the temptation becomes too great. If the temptation is too great, the Devil must be behind it.

Is that it? Is it? Because if he follows that logic, Connor isn't holding himself back out of fear of punishment, he does it because he believes he's being tricked by the Devil himself. Who isn't _him_.

That, Connor knows.

Right?

“Connor,” Murphy says. There's ash everywhere, including on his shirt and jeans; he's been lying on the bed and smoking for hours, ever since his cock softened and he braved leaving the bathroom.

“Aye.” It's an answer, not a question, and Connor very much looks like he's lost it, smiling in a way so nice, it probably means he's insane.

“What ye said-”

“Don't,” Connor cuts in. He looks back at the screen. “I don't need an answer. I know the answer.”

Murphy swallows, eyes burning because they haven't opened the window in forever. “And?” he asks after stubbing out his smoke and stopping his mind from presenting him with a continuous replay of Connor rolling into the mattress.

“And if ye were the Devil,” Connor says, “and we're the same, then I'd be the Devil as well.” He glares as if any of it was _his_ bloody idea, then he finishes his beer and immediately reaches for a fresh one. “When I'm like that- When I'm weak like that, ye can't listen to me. I don't make sense. It's nothing, Murph.”

He wants to go out. This room is old already, as was the house, as is being on the run. He wants to be at McGinty's and he wants to be with Rocco. All three of them sitting at the bar, talking shit, listening to Doc's stuttered swearing.

This—it's not worth it. The good they're doing doesn't outweigh the bad they have to live with any longer.

“Brother.”

How is he going to convince Connor the Devil isn't behind this temptation while he isn't even sure he wants to convince Connor in the first place? Changing Connor's mind about something he thinks he will burn for; what kind of brother does that make him?

What kind of lover?

“Fucking- I didn't mean it, aye?”

“'m not saying anything,” Murphy mutters.

There's a cheese-stick in Connor's hand and points it at him, accusingly. “But I can see ye thinking.”

Murphy groans and turns back to the TV. There's a shark.

“And ye didn't do yer exercises today.”

Because he was busy with his failed attempt at seducing his brother by accident. “Ye didn't clean yer gun today,” Murphy says.

“I'll do it tomorrow.” Connor chews like a mule, shoving the whole bloody cheese-stick into his mouth. “Ye still gotta do the exercise, though.”

This is the first conversation since the earlier disaster and his brother takes the opportunity to make him _train_ , glassy eyes, greasy fingers and all. “If ye don't shut yer gob, I'm gonna punch ye.” He's over hating Connor, but maybe it will come back. Soon, possibly.

The chair scrapes over the shitty carpet and Connor stands, gripping the edge of the table for support as he staggers over. “It's important,” he whispers, weirdly off even though he glares, then he grabs him by the ankles and yanks.

Murphy skids down the bed, hollering. He fists his hands into the covers as Connor overestimates and lands on his arse.

“It's fucking important, Murph, and ye don't seem to be doing anything about it.” Connor scrambles up and leans over him in a wave of marinara sauce and beer. “Means I'm gonna have to step in cause I always do.”

“What the fuck?”

Connor kneels and closes his hand around his leg, pulling until Murphy's foot is pressed against his thigh. “Go on.”

Is this training or something else, what the fuck, he hasn't needed Connor's help for exercising his leg in months—

“Wait!” Connor cries, dropping his leg like it's on fire and bustling up and away like he, also, is on fire.

Something clatters in the bathroom.

Murphy stares at the ceiling, consciously letting go of the tension in his body until Connor comes back and throws a small object in the direction of the bed. Murphy squints at it and has barely enough time to identify the item as the bloody balm they keep carrying around for reasons he forgot, then his thought screech to a halt.

“Yer supposed to rub that stuff in daily, not just every once in a while when ye fucking feel like it,” Connor says, harsh and mean and fingers on the button of Murphy's jeans.

“Stop.”

Connor doesn't.

Murphy lifts his hips and lets him pull off his jeans.

“Ye've got to let me do this.” Connor kneels on the carpet and pulls Murphy's foot in his lap, eyes focused on the scar.

“But I can do it on my own,” Murphy says to be contrary, but he pushes his foot down anyway. Connor holds him steady, one hand on his knee, the other around his ankle. It's the same exercise they've done for weeks and months before Murphy was able to do it on his own; lying on his back and pushing against the edge of the mattress, the couch, the armchair.

Whatever was within reach, whatever hurt the most so he knew it was working.

“Okay?” Connor asks eventually, head bowed and voice small, and Murphy doesn't know what to do any longer.

He nods, watching on as Connor reaches for the balm and starts to rub it over the scar without hesitating. He's so good and strong and handsome, gentle like he never was, before. Before he understood how fiercely Connor loves and how frightened he is of things he cannot possibly control.

Fuck, he loves him so much. He loves him enough that it should scare him.

It doesn't.

“I don't know what I'd do without ye.”

Murphy twitches in panic before he realizes he isn't the one who said it.

“Murph, I just- I want so bad and I don't know if I ever-”

“Stop. _Stop_ ,” Murphy stresses, scrambling up on his elbows to stare at his brother. He will tell him now and that's—going to be the end of it. There's no other way. “I knew,” he says, throat raw, “I knew ye didn't want to. Ye don't have to explain.”

“I have to.” Despite it all, Connor keeps massaging him. He's a fucking mule, and Murphy loves him. “And I want to.”

“But I don't want to hear it,” Murphy mumbles, stressed again as Connor lets out a small, strangled sound.

“I'm sorry,” he says, averting his eyes, “that I am like this. But I do believe ye'd want to hear it.”

“Are ye even listening?”

It doesn't seem like it; Connor's eyes travel from his scar to his thighs, ever upwards, raising goosebumps in their wake without changing a single thing in his face. He wasn't _bashfully_ avoiding eye contact, he's fucking horny, and he's still kneeling between his legs. “I have a proposal,” he says, voice dark.

“I'm hungry,” Murphy says.

“Fucking same here. I'll get us pizza after, now hear me out.” Connor looks up again, eyes hooded. Then he licks his lips. “There are other things—if ye want to. Things that aren't too...”

“Bad?” Murphy prompts dully.

Connor nods and tightens his fingers, digging in until his touch is as inappropriate as the look in his eyes and the gravel in his voice and the small 'Oh' he lets out when he finds the evidence of how on fucking board Murphy will be with whatever he plans to propose. It's rising up to meet him, right in his line of sight.

“I could watch while—ye know. While ye do it. Or if ye'd rather want it the other way around, ye could do the same. Watch me.”

His cock jumps and Connor's fingers squeeze painfully.

“Don't decide now. Just think about it, aye?” With a final pat, Connor sits back on his arse, a soft look on his face. “Pizza now?”

“Aye,” Murphy croaks, sitting up to hide his lap as Connor moves to stand, halfway to the door by the time Murphy manages to speak up again, “What made ye change yer mind?”

Connor is back in his space so fast, Murphy rears back, then Connor's hands are in his hair, bowing his head back. “I haven't changed my mind for a fucking second, ye hear me? I didn't know, that's all. I didn't know, and now I've- We have to figure out how to make it work.”

“What ye can endure?” Murphy's eyes close without his input, lightheaded from the lack of food, the beer, the breath on his lips.

“What we can endure,” Connor corrects gently, and Murphy opens his eyes again. The proposal won't work. He can't tell him, there are no words which would fit the awfulness. Their definitions of what can and can't work aren't even in the same universe.

Connor chooses the lesser sin instead of the one condemning him to Hell forever, and even now, after all of this, after he said it so often - Connor doesn't _know_.

He can take it all. With some time to get accustomed to it, he thinks he's going to want it all, everything except testing Connor's limits and never having him for real.

“All right,” Murphy says.

*

Praying for guidance, reciting a handful of psalms of David, fucking staring at the ceiling until his eyes are dry and Connor's arm heavy on his chest; it's not enough, the proper words to explain it to Connor won't come, so Murphy makes a mental note to stop at a church along the way to wherever they're going next. The chances of his prayers being heard are higher there, and if he's honest, he could do with a confession.

It's been too long.

“Hello, ladies,” Greenly says, marching in like he's in a hurry only to stop in the middle of the room, stupidly turning in circles to look at them both.

Murphy waves.

“Hey,” Connor says, hiding something that could be a grin. He closes the door and sits back at the table where his gun is scattered about, waiting to be cleaned.

“Look at you two, all grown up.” Greenly grins, a bit unsure. “Don't make me feel old now.”

“Good to see ye, too,” Murphy says, grinning and _not_ unsure about it. Only a bit, though he can't tell why.

“Yeah, it is. It is.” Greenly laughs and jerks toward the table like a robot. “So, how are you doing? Besides that unfortunate complication.”

The cane is under the bed. Murphy measures his steps as he walks over and tries for a smile. “We're good,” he says, casually gripping the back of Connor's chair to help him keep his balance. It works, he thinks, at least Greenly isn't focusing on his leg or the way he walks—but there's still something off about him. It's an uncomfortable tingle in the back of his mind.

“Good. We've been devastated to hear what happened. Just damn awful, I'm glad you pulled through.” It's his eyes. Greenly sees more than he lets on. The smartest of the three-man group despite putting on his stupid show.

“Ye said ye had directions for us?” Connor says, smiling. It doesn't look nice.

“And a car,” Murphy adds, plopping down on the chair as Connor vacates it. To make room, he swipes the dissembled gun to the side, then he nods at the other chair. Greenly sits, leaving Connor to loom over them, rather dramatic. “So, what did we miss?” Murphy asks, smiling without having to make an effort this time. “Everything good with ye? And the rest of the crew?”

“All good, everyone's fine. We're busy, you know how it is.” Greenly pauses with his hand halfway in his jacket. “Actually, you don't. Just ignore that.”

Connor digs up Russian, muttering under his breath, and Murphy's heart swells just because Connor feels it too, the 'off'. Of course he does, he's smart. They always shared their instinct.

“You seem occupied,” Greenly says. “Did I catch you at a bad time? It's no problem, you can tell me.”

“Ye didn't, we're just tired of sitting on our arses all day.” Connor sighs, and Murphy cranes his head, briefly catching his eyes, confirming the lie. It curls in his chest—lower. It sits there, making itself comfortable right next to the proposal he is going to refuse, speeding up his heart until something lands on the table.

It's an envelope.

“We've got another safe house for you. The drive should take half a day, give or take, but it'll be worth it - or at least that's what our research on the area tells us. I'll let Eunice be the one to explain it to you.”

“Eunice?” Murphy chimes in.

Greenly nods. “Yeah, she'll meet you at the new location. Two days from now, I think? Long enough for you to get there and make a stop for the night.” He glances at Connor. “In case you're not up to drive through the night, that is.”

“Oh, we are.”

Murphy licks his lips. “And why's she meeting with us when ye could be the one telling us now?”

Greenly grins, fiddling with the envelope between them. “I'm here because I was in the area anyway and it's faster to switch out your car this way. Seemed more reasonable to let Eunice be the one to talk to you though, I thought you'd appreciate that.”

Behind him, Connor vibrates with something Murphy doesn't want to know about. “And why would that be?” he asks. “Not that wedon'tappreciate her company, but yer fucking weird about it and I don't think I like it.”

There's a beat of silence.

“Well, she came by for your birthday, right? I thought you'd like to repeat that sort of visit.” Greenly looks like he plans to waggle his eyebrows, but thank fuck he doesn't. Murphy feels already tired of the conversation and the tone and the insinuation—

“What's that supposed to mean?” Connor asks. It sounds nice.

Murphy reaches for the envelope.

“Woah there,” Greenly says. “I'm just saying that I thought you could use some company of the fairer sex. Must be tough for you to get some distraction while being on the run.” He pauses, grinning weakly. “Doesn't it get boring?”

Connor is in his space before Murphy can even blink. He pulls himself up and yanks Connor back by his arm. “Show me where ye parked the car,” he says to Greenly. “It's best we get driving soon, no?”

No one moves. Connor pants beside him, then behind him as Murphy pushes past.

“Come on,” he says, looking at Greenly.

The off-feeling isn't as strong as it was, though it's clear something is working in Greenly's head. He stands and shakes his head. “Whatever you say.” They swap car keys in silence, then Murphy accompanies him to the door while Connor does who knows what behind them. Lurking, probably. Looming threateningly even though Greenly is at least one head taller than him.

“What's wrong with him?” Greenly asks as soon as they're out of hearing range. The parking lot is almost empty, stifling in the heat.

“Nothing.” Not a thing. “Didn't sleep well, maybe. Dunno.”

Eyebrows raised, Greenly looks at him with something like pity in his face, and Murphy itches to knock out his teeth. It's all of a sudden, making him jerk back in its intensity.

“Anyway, congratulations: that one's yours,” Greenly says, pointing somewhere he can't follow.

This is wrong. He doesn't _not_ like Greenly, and if he liked him the least of the trio, then certainly not enough to feel violent toward him. Greenly hasn't done a thing, yet here he is, forcing his fist to unclench while Connor's restless energy is strong enough to echo through the fucking wall.

“Hey.”

They've been alone for too long.

“Aye,” Murphy says. “Sorry, which one?”

This time, he follows the line of Greenly's finger pointing at a shabby car. It's green just like the one where he bled all over the interior.

“Did ye manage to get the blood out of the other one? After the shooting,” Murphy asks, watching as Greenly squints back through the open door.

“What? Oh. No, that went to the junkyard and right into the press.” Greenly shrugs, then he takes an awkward step back toward what is probably his own car. “Directions are in the envelope.”

“Thank ye.” He means it. “And ignore my brother, it's for the best.”

Greenly doesn't see his wave; he drives off without stalling any further.

Lighting a smoke, Murphy squints against the sun, sweating even though he's wearing a shirt that's thin from too many rounds in the washing machine anyway. Halfway through his smoke, Connor appears next to him. A silent presence, warm in the warmth, sort of calming.

“Is he gone?”

Murphy looks over, leaning toward him until his shoulder brushes against Connor's chest. It's slow, unlike back during the dark times when he didn't know, and unlike those times, Connor doesn't flinch back either. He steals his smoke though, and he doesn't give it back.

“What was that about? With Greenly.”

Connor shrugs, smoke dangling from the corner of his mouth. “Nothing. He just rubs me the wrong way, can't say why.” The smoke gets crushed under Connor's boot. He looks out over the parked cars, fingers scratching at the hair above his lips. “It's just a feeling, right?”

Murphy grins, breathless with the need to—he doesn't even know. Press his forehead against Connor's or do something alarming like praising their shared gut instinct despite all their recent fuck-ups. “Yeah,” Murphy says instead. “Let's pack.”

They leave, and the silly happiness in him doesn't.

It's such as stupid thing to be happy about that he's almost ashamed admitting in his own head how afraid he's been over losing that connection. He loves Connor, he does, and he won't give up, not unless he truly has to, but if there was a choice to make—Connor is his twin first. If he were to lose that connection, he'd rather stay Connor's brother than have him in any other way.

But he doesn't plan to choose either way, even if he can't tell if it's a sane conclusion or particularly depraved.

“If ye take the next exit, we can go straight for a few hours.”

Murphy nods, changing lanes and watching Connor out of the corners of his eyes. He keeps squirming on his seat, the energy coming off him still restless enough to sit uneasily between them. “What is it?”

“Nothin'.”

Ready to sit out his strange mood, Murphy drives on with an alarm in his head growing from tiny to worrisome to screeching.

“I don't know, all right? I'm just antsy,” Connor says. “Quit turning it over in yer bloody brain.”

“I'll do what I want.” Murphy licks his lips, glancing over and catching Connor trying to find yet another position— “The tattoo?” he squeaks, thoughts overrun with infections and worst-case scenarios at once.

“What?” Connor frowns. “Nah, tattoo's fine, I checked it earlier. Doesn't even burn.”

Sighing, Murphy focuses on the road when Connor turns up the radio and starts to hum under his breath. He hasn't looked at the tattoo yet, but he ought to, soon. It's his work, after all, and the awful ending of the process notwithstanding; he did well.

He hopes.

He also hopes that at the end of this road, there won't be a random safe house waiting but a parochial house. He doesn't quite know what he'd do if there were two bedrooms to sleep in. The need to have Connor close at night isn't negotiable any longer; it's basic, and since parochial houses tend to come with single beds—oh.

Oh, Christ.

“Connor,” he breathes, swinging over to look at him. The wheel jerks with the movement.

“What the _fuck_?”

It wasn't just a feeling. They don't have just feelings, two minds thinking the same thing means there's something fucking about it. Murphy grips the wheel, regaining control over the car as Connor hollers at him from the side. “We weren't careful enough,” he rushes out. “We've been fucking stupid-”

“Speak fucking sense!”

There's no parking lane. Murphy swerves right and grips Connor's shoulder, both to ground himself and his brother as well. “We booked a room with one bed,” he states into the tension, and there's no reaction until Connor jerks back against the door and stares at him in horror.

“Fuck. Fuck, Murph, ye fucker,” he whispers, “Ye did that.”

“Okay.”

“ _Okay_?” Connor cries. “The fuck's 'okay' supposed to mean? Greenly fucking knows, what the fuck are we gonna do, what are we-”

“Greenly knows shit,” Murphy snaps. He hits the brake and drives into the dirt without letting go of Connor's shoulder despite his brother trying his best to shake him off. Because, fucking apparently, Connor decided this is his fault somehow.

“Ye booked that fucking room! Of course he knows!”

“At best he thinks it was the last free one. Fucking Christ, Connor, and I sure as fuck didn't book that room to reveal anything!”

Connor shrugs off his hand after all, truly angry and hopefully at his fucking self, because _he_ didn't do a bloody thing. “Don't placate me, Murphy. Ye almost crashed the car just now, don't fucking pretend yer not worried.”

“Out of shock,” Murphy says, abruptly itching for a smoke, for a room, one bed or two. For quiet and peace and to never have come in a situation like this. “Out of shock,” he says again, trying. “I just remembered, is all. That doesn't mean Greenly knows something he shouldn't.”

“Knows something he shouldn't?” Connor repeats. “Are ye listening to yerself? Yer fucking awful ways to make light of this, fucking glossing over what's actually happening here, will give me fucking cancer.”

Madonna makes sex noises in the background. He wants to leave, and Connor looks like he's one second away from bolting through the door and into the fields.

“I'll take that for now,” Murphy says. “But only for now, aye? I'll fucking clock ye one if ye don't get a grip again and blame me for every shite that rubs ye the wrong way.” Connor stares ahead without moving, and Murphy sighs, clenching his fists. “What am I glossing over?”

“Incest.” Connor smiles. “I can't begin to imagine what Greenly might be thinking.”

Killing the engine leaves them in a sudden silence. With the radio off and little traffic around, they sit quietly until Murphy braves up again.

“There is no incest.” He looks at Connor's profile, at his handsome face and his tight-drawn eyebrows, at how he won't look back at him. “And even if there was—Greenly doesn't matter. He's nothing. I don't give a fuck about what he thinks he knows or doesn't.”

Connor lights a smoke, staring at it as if he's never seen a lighter do its magic before. “Don't say that,” he rasps, then he holds out the smoke without making eye contact. His hand shakes.

Murphy takes the cigarette, takes a drag, takes another. Connor won't look at him, but he sees him just fine. Him and his tense shoulders and bowed head and shaking hands. “There is no incest. We didn't do anything,” he says eventually, voice quieting down until it's barely above a whisper even though it's the truth.

If intentions don't count. And they don't, he decides. They simply don't, especially not if they put that look on his brother.

“Greenly doesn't know, fucking trust me. He saw the bed - fine, but why would his first conclusion be that we're fucking? That's just plain stupid, no one thinks like that.” Murphy nods and nods until Connor finally looks up, eyes big and sort of crazy—and that makes him crazy as well, also sort of. “And _if_ Greenly knows, then fuck it.”

“Fuck it, he says.” Connor laughs, rubbing his hand over his face. “Ye've gone off the deep end. That's it. It's just me now, the only fucking sane person left, the only one who's still got some brains left.”

Blowing out smoke in his direction just to make him remember he won't fucking take his rude remarks longer than it takes to get him back on track, Murphy wants to glare, but then he refocuses his energy on laying out his words to make his stupid brother understand. “I say fuck it because Greenly has no authority. What kind of authority does he have to judge us, mh? Over Him, who made us like this?”

“Jesus Christ,” Connor breathes, rosary clutched in his hand with a look of such horror on his face, Murphy can't even fault him for it even though he prefers to hold onto Connor instead.

He always did. They're not the same.

“He didn't, Murphy. We weren't made like this. It happened some day. It happened to me, and for some fucked up reason, I've infected ye and now ye think-”

Murphy grips Connor's neck and the words die. His hand is squashed between Connor's head and the backrest, even more so as Connor presses back against him. “Ye didn't infect me,” Murphy says quietly. “It's no disease, Con.”

“But it is. It is, it's...” Connor swallows, eyes darting between his eyes, his lips and back again. “When did it happen?”

It's nothing he ever thought about. There's no answer he can give, so Murphy offers the smoke back to buy himself some time and watches Connor take a shaky drag, and then he still has no answer and leans over instead, bowing until his forehead presses against Connor's shoulder. His rosary is right in front of his eyes, and Murphy looks away. “It doesn't matter, it's not important. It was bound to happen, He knew it would happen.”

The air is sticky, hot from the sun and clouded from the smoke, and he isn't lying.

“Yer being honest with me, no?” Connor whispers, moving to cradle his face until Murphy lets go of his neck to lessen the intimacy. “Ye mean it?”

His heart splinters, painful enough he's sure it's audible. They will move in circles forever, damned to stay in this in-between place until they're called away. Connor wants to be told, he wants him to confirm, and he will _never_ understand until he sees the truth for himself. This is putting a band-aid on a three-degree burn.

“I'm always honest with ye,” Murphy says, then he straightens to look Connor in the eyes, blurry in their closeness. “When did it happen for ye?”

There will be no answer. It's okay.

It's all right because he's right. He knows it and maybe, eventually, Connor will get there, too.

“There's no fighting what is supposed to be, we know that,” Murphy says, and for a moment, he feels the second baptism again, rain from the ceiling in a dry cell, a shared dream, a Calling—then it's just Connor, holding onto him while he crosses himself.

“Don't say it again,” Connor whispers, close enough to tickle him with his beard. Then it's his lips dragging over Murphy's cheek. “Don't say it again.”

“I will,” Murphy says, contrary, inching closer as Connor nudges him with his nose. There's a small sound, breathed against his skin, and then Connor's lips are almost on his. Murphy waits, waits, waits, then he opens his mouth so Connor's upper lip fits into the corner, barely, but it's _there_ —and then it isn't.

“All right.” Connor sits back and reaches for a new smoke.

“What?”

“I believe ye,” Connor says, frowning as Murphy recollects his brain cells.

He adjusts himself in his jeans. It's uncomfortable. The smoke in the car matches the fog in his brain, and he thinks there's possibly something he should give as an answer, but he forgot what they were talking about. Murphy licks his lips, imagining he can taste his brother on them.

“That bad, eh?”

He can't taste him, because Connor's lips were too dry to leave any trace of him and that's got to be one of the great injustices of in this new age. The sidelong glance Connor gives him is the second, he guesses. Or his smirk. “Fuck ye,” Murphy says kindly.

Connor motions for him to restart the car. His cheeks are red, and Murphy splays his legs to get the pressure off his bloody cock and decidedly doesn't look at his brother until it's safe again.

*

He stops at a church and walks inside without waiting to see whether Connor wants to join him lest it ends in another fight. Vaguely and without being able to pin the exact moment it happened, something in him decided to simply let Connor—be.

If he can't change Connor's mind, he can as well use the time to focus on himself. On the why's and when's and how's.

Reminiscing about a time when he was trying to help his brother, selfless and kind, does nothing except making him wonder when he changed to someone with ulterior motives. Ones he didn't know were possible for him, and especially not without feeling guilty about it.

When he walks to the confessional, Connor's outline slinks through the open door; a dark shadow against the sun outside, taking the place Murphy abandoned.

Murphy nods at him, then he fumbles his way through confession, trying to be as honest as possible as he talks about leading a loved one astray and planning to change their mind about something they believe to be the Devil's work. He talks about revenge and jealousy and righteousness burning inside him, and the Father can't see him or his face, but he knows regardless.

“Do you believe it to be a sin?” he asks.

It's the simplest absolution he's ever been given. There's only one answer, no uncertainty.

“I don't.”

The chair behind the wall squeaks and the Father's voice sounds closer. “You would know,” he says quietly, and then he sends him off with instructions to pray on everything but the leading astray.

Murphy steps out into the empty church feeling strangely light even though he bloody knows the Father meant something else. Still, it's been a while since a holy person reassured them about their work, and it lifts a weight off his shoulders he wasn't aware of carrying.

Outside, Connor leans against the car, a smoke between his lips and his hair glowing in the sun, and Murphy loves him.

When they're back in the car, he says so and earns himself no reaction at all. Connor lets him drive and turns up the music, and then he steals his smoke and puts it between his own lips.

It's enough.

They drive mile after mile until the sun starts to set, their stomachs to grumble, and their smokes to run empty, then Connor says, “I'm sorry. For how I've been talking to ye.”

“That's all right.”

It isn't, but since Connor believes he'd give into the Devil if he put his hands on him, it's the least of his worries, and that isn't even counting in all the stress today that prevented him from coming up with a good answer in case Connor will ask if he thought about his proposal.

And Connor will, he's always been impatient with things he thinks he knows the answer to.

*

The peace lasts until they arrive at the new house - single bedroom - and Murphy comes out of the shower to find Connor lying in bed with a _look_ on his face and the covers folded back.

He needs clothes for this.

Changing in front of his brother is something else entirely knowing Connor watches him instead of throwing bored glances his way like he did all his life. Or maybe not all his life, who the fuck knows.

Not him, only Connor, and that fucker won't share—fine.

To bed.

Murphy lies back and pulls up the blanket so fast he slaps his chest in the process. Connor's laser-eyes burn a hole in his face. Maybe two.

Several.

“Did ye give it a thought?”

Hearing Connor admit to wanting this hits him harder than he thought it would, and his heart starts galloping at once. Murphy swallows and turns his head to look at Connor, at his body so obviously on display—for him, with the lights on and his shirt off and his cock straining in his briefs, blatantly hard. “Connor,” he croaks, fisting his hands under the covers to not do anything stupid like grabbing him like a man possessed, and then he forces himself to look away from the invitation and into his face.

It doesn't help, it's almost worse seeing his hopeful face; Connor looks like he's ready to do it at once, rip off the last of his clothes and put on a show for him.

“Aye, Murph?”

“If ye did that now- If I saw ye touching yerself now- It's just, seeing ye like that and not being allowed to put my hands on ye would be cruel.” Murphy pauses, watching as Connor licks his lips. “It's impossible, I mean,” he adds hastily, letting his eyes trail over his brother, not missing the change as Connor gradually switches from bold to lost until he almost looks small, chest pale in the bright light.

Beautifully pale without his rosary.

“What're ye saying?” Connor asks, though he looks like he knows.

“I'm saying that if ye take off yer clothes,” Murphy says, focusing on Connor's shoulder, “I'd want to put my mouth on ye.”

“Mur-”

“And ye decide whether ye can live with that or not,” he whispers. “'m not telling ye how it's gonna go, I'm just telling ye what I can't do. The other way around wouldn't work either.” Sitting up, Murphy rubs over his face and swings his legs over the edge. “It would break my heart, I think. So... ye decide.”

There, he said it. It's out in the open now, Connor can do with it as he sees fit.

Hot and cold at the same time, Murphy stands, unashamed about his erection because—because deep down, he hopes the sight might sway Connor's mind. It won't, and he wouldn't admit it out loud even when threatened, but the hope is still there, buried.

But not enough to make him wait by standing around. The lights in the rest of the house need to be turned off, so that's what he will do. Giving Connor a minute or two, giving himself a minute or two, and then it'll be decided and they can either move on or—do something else.

About it.

Fuck.

In the living room, Murphy takes a deep breath and then another right after, feeling his way along the walls as he turns off the lights. His leg twinges, but only faintly, and from where he is, he can't look into the bedroom and he can't decide whether it's been long enough.

It's for fucking nothing, he knows already anyway.

Turning off the last light, Murphy walks back into the bedroom and closes the door. It's fine, it really is. This is Connor's decision, he said so, and he will fucking stand by it.

Connor is where he left him, the small lamp next to the bed illuminating his face. He looks sheepish, covered up by the blanket, arms crossed over them like a child.

Smiling. He should smile to not give Connor the impression he made the wrong choice - which he did - but still. Fucking Christ.

No more Hail Mary, enough with this fucking shit.

Murphy smiles and gets back into bed and turns off the lamp and tries to die.

It's fine.

The blanket comes up, suddenly, and slides over him. Then Connor scoots closer, behind his back, and then his arm comes, at last, winding around Murphy's side until he's hugging him, and because that isn't enough yet, Connor pulls him back until he's pressed against his chest and breathes against his neck.

Murphy sobs once, in the dark. There's no way Connor didn't hear, but he doesn't react other than simply staying, and how the fuck is he supposed to get over this, how the fuck is he supposed to get over him when Connor holds him this close, specifically choosing to do so. Intimate. Breathing against him, half-naked, maybe even still hard, raising goosebumps and heat in him for what?

“This is the last time,” Connor whispers. His thumb presses against Murphy's ribs, drawing neat circles. “I won't deny ye again. I don't think I could.”

There isn't an inch of space between them. If he moved his hips, barely, just the fraction of a movement, he could press back against him, feel the proof.

“Don't ask me again.” It's whispered right against his skin.

Murphy stays where he is, wraps his fingers around Connor's wrist, and holds on.


	12. Chapter 12

The phone rings.

Connor wriggles closer like he's trying to glue himself to his back, and also like he doesn't plan to get up to get the fucking phone.

With a groan, Murphy leaves the warmth and bustles as quickly as his traitorous leg allows toward the shrill intruder. He picks up.

“Morning, sunshine.” It's Eunice. She sounds too cheerful. “Did I wake you? I don't assume you've got plans for the day, is lunch fine? I'll bring food.”

Murphy blinks at the wall. “Lots of questions,” he says, then he shakes himself from head to toe to activate his brain. “Sounds good. Lunch.”

“Oh my, back to bed with you.” She snorts, rather rude. “See you later.”

The line goes dead and Murphy stumbles back into the bedroom, aims straight for the bed, and throws himself in. “Eunice comes by with lunch and I'm perishing,” he informs his brother while simultaneously trying to get him to hold still for long enough to bury himself in his warmth.

Connor squawks, fending him off.

They wrestle.

Connor wins, scooting away.

“Yer mean.” Murphy pulls the covers up to his nose and thinks about Connor's thumb on his ribs when he said he wouldn't deny him again.

“Mean.” Connor scoffs. “Ye haven't _seen_ mean, ye knob. Ye've been coddled yer entire life.”

That one opportunity Connor granted him - probably without meaning to, the fucker - he has to use it wisely. Very wisely.

Connor sighs. “Come here, then.”

“Nah.”

“Nah?” Connor's eyebrows are arrogant, that high on his forehead. Over his eyes. Which darken.

Murphy sniffs, looking away and pretending he isn't already hard just from roughhousing for two minutes.

“Murphy,” Connor says, and he isn't looking at his face at all; he focuses on Murphy's raised knees as if he can see through fucking the blanket and directly at the evidence of why cuddling isn't on the table any longer. When he looks back up, Murphy doesn't need to wonder about it anymore.

Connor knows and Connor clenches his jaw and Connor looks like he's one second away from ripping the sheets off him, and he looks—angry.

“The fuck is yer problem?” Murphy gripes, self-conscious without any fucking reason. He didn't come on to him, not for a moment, that's all Connor's doing.

“Just because I said I wouldn't leave, Murph - now listen, aye?” Connor forces his look on him, waiting until he nods. “That doesn't give ye a free pass to do whatever the fuck ye want, ye get that? What I fucking said was simple: I won't leave. That's all I promised. I didn't say shit about a fucking happily ever after or us being fucking okay, I fucking said I will stay no matter how awful ye are. And ye are, Murph, ye just are, I swear to fucking- I swear to everything holy, I don't-”

Murphy sighs, and to his surprise, he cuts Connor off with it. “Are ye done?” he asks, peeling himself out from underneath the mountain of blankets.

“Not by a long fucking shot,” Connor rasps, eyes dark and cheeks red, gloriously furious and fucking beautiful, and if he doesn't start touching him soon—there will have to be a fistfight.

Getting up, Murphy sighs in despair, pulling at his hair to block out the new tirade Connor spits out behind him as if his brother doesn't fucking know he means himself with it. Why Connor even bothers is beyond him, but if he feels better hurling insults at _him_ because he's fucking hard under there himself, then be it fucking so.

That doesn't mean he has to wait for him to finish, though.

Murphy walks into the bathroom, shoves down his boxers, and gets into the shower.

The cold water does nothing to shrivel up anything; not his cock, not Connor's litany, not the thoughts in his head. His fingers wrap around his cock on their own accord before the water has time to turn tepid, raining down on him and drowning out the worst of Connor's insults until they stop altogether.

He breathes instead, rough, just at the edge of Murphy's hearing range, pushing aside the rushing in his head and the sound of his hand working. If he turned around, he'd see Connor in the doorway. He's convinced. He _knows_ , he can almost see the picture in his mind—from Connor's point of view.

It's disturbing, making him clench his arse just to fucking show Connor he's been caught, then he fists his free hand against the tiles and picks up speed. “Get out,” Murphy says. It sounds like a moan, so he says it again, right after. “Get out, Connor. Ye don't want me, ye don't get to see me.”

The other thing, he doesn't say.

The door clicks shut, a faint sound, barely audible and still enough to send a shock of something through him. It's hot and painful and shameful, and Murphy comes too fast, knees buckling and voice hoarse even though he tries so hard to keep it inside—but Connor heard him anyway. He doesn't need a special connection to his bloody brother to know he lurks on the other side of the door.

Murphy takes his time cleaning up and getting through his routine, and then he wraps a towel around his hips and walks out, and the view of Connor wiping his hand on a discarded shirt makes him say it after all, “Did ye forget it'd break my heart?”

Connor lies on the bed, boneless and panting. The evidence of what he did lingers on his fingers, so Murphy doesn't take a closer look. Instead, he puts on clothes like a sane person, and Connor's answer takes long enough he knows Connor didn't, in fact, forget.

Maybe that's what the whole bleat was about, who the fuck knows.

“I didn't,” Connor says in his fucked out voice, and suddenly he's next to him, smelling like—what he did. “I didn't,” he says again, and when Murphy looks up, he's being fucking smirked at.

“Did ye wank away the last of yer brain cells?”

Connor and his grin stare ahead, sort of vacant. Then he shrugs and wipes his fucking hand again. On his chest. Which is naked. “Haven't done that in a while.”

“That's unhealthy,” Murphy states as Connor rounds him and takes care to brush his shoulder against him, setting things as right as they can be. The door closes and Murphy stands, flustered as something that wants to be hope blossoms in his chest. Connor thought about him while doing it, he's sure, and before, Connor didn't allow himself to do it all.

It can only mean good things.

*

Eunice arrives with food and a positive attitude.

They sit down in the living room and make idle small talk, and even though there's no hug and no alcohol this time, it's still obvious she remembers the problem he talked to her before; quick glances, a drawn up eyebrow and a small smile in his direction as Connor searches for cutlery.

“It's fine,” Murphy says, trying to be casual as a wave of gratitude hits him. It's simply nice knowing someone remembers, it doesn't matter that they couldn't talk about it before and talking about it now isn't even in the realm of _possible_ any longer. It's still nice.

“So,” Connor says, forks in hand as he plops down on the couch. “We're over 'what's new' by now, I gather?”

“That one's eager, isn't he?”

Murphy sighs, long-suffering. “Going up the walls, more like it. Let's eat first, aye?”

They do, picking up random topics, nothing that relates to work—to Connor's dismay. Or whatever the frown he sports is about. It's not important. The food is good and as much as he loves his brother, having someone else to share a conversation with, just to look at a bloody face that isn't his, is so refreshing he'd take Connor's stink eye for a week.

For a few days, at least.

“So,” Connor says again, rather stressful as he leans back, arm thrown over the back of the couch. He puts his empty plate on the seat next to him because he's a heathen. “Tell us about the area.”

Napkin against her lips, Eunice lifts her eyebrows, and Murphy is pretty sure she's hiding a smile behind it. He can't prove it though, she's too stealthy for that. “Very eager,” she comments, but then she folds her legs and smooths out her skirt, and there's a professional air about her at once.

A drastic change that makes him want to clean up, rather suddenly. Murphy clears his throat, reaches for Connor's plate, and stacks it onto his own on the table where they bloody well belong.

“I see Greenly left you with the information,” Eunice says, nodding at the envelope on the table. “Did you go over it?”

“Not really,” Murphy says, shrugging against Connor's hand on his neck. Hidden from view, his thumb scratches at his hairline.

“That's just as well.” With a smile that says nothing at all, Eunice takes the envelope and empties it of various papers. “There are a few things I have to say about it anyway.”

Connor's fingers wrap around his neck, definitely not out of view. They squeeze. Murphy has barely enough time to frown in his direction, then Connor's mouth closes in on his ear and forces him to look ahead again.

“Quit it,” Connor whispers. It tickles, emptying his mind until Connor sits back again.

“What?” Murphy says. He blinks at Eunice. “Sorry, go on.”

Eunice folds her hands. “As you remember, I wasn't able to visit you during those difficult times - and again, Murphy, I'm deeply sorry about that.”

“'s fine.”

“Thank you. Now, the reason, of course, was the racket you caused. A shootout in broad daylight in the middle of an industrial district-”

“It wasn't like we planned for it to go down like that,” Murphy cuts in, rolling his shoulder to shake off Connor's bloody hand. He doesn't dare glare at him to draw her attention to it, so he accidentally glares at Eunice instead, and then his cheeks heat and he sits back with a huff.

Eunice smiles the smile of the patient and waits until he settled like one would wait for a brat to calm down. Fucking shite, all of this. Who the fuck knew he even cared about the bloody shooting any longer, he hasn't thought about it for months, for fuck's sake.

The thumb rubs in a circle, right over his tense muscles.

“I know you didn't plan it,” Eunice says mildly, “but it made the papers nonetheless, and since you weren't careful - understandably, given the circumstances - I found myself unable to come close to you without revealing my own whereabouts.”

Because she's still fucking looked for, he bloody well knows, he didn't forget and he didn't even say anything about it, fucking—

Murphy huffs. Beside him, Connor sits quiet enough to make him uneasy. “We get that,” he mutters. “What's that have to do with potential targets though? Or the area.”

“The reason why ye sent us here,” Connor chimes in, and that makes him even more uneasy.

Eunice sighs. “The men you took out weren't locals. They belong to a bigger group and their main post is located here.”

“Now yer talking.”

“Yes, Murphy, now I'm talking and you need to listen. It's crucial that you understand what we're dealing with. The possibility that members of the group are able to recognize you is high, so I strongly suggest that you put good disguises to work before you leave the house.”

“Ye could've led with that.”

Connor grunts. “What yer saying is that ye want to hire us to take them out.”

“What?” Murphy asks. “Nobody's hiring us.”

“The way I see it, we've been brought here for the purpose of taking out specific men,” Connor states. “Means we're being hired.”

“So?” He stares at Connor's mulish profile, trying to read his thoughts. “That's what they do, no? Giving us the information we need to rid Evil from existence they couldn't touch otherwise.” Connor's palm lies sweaty against his neck now, and Connor won't look at him; he looks at Eunice with a focus that's a tad too sharp.

“Ye can't get to them by other means?”

“No.” Eunice cocks her head and directs her smile at Connor. “I know it must've been difficult for you-”

“This isn't about me.”

“Are ye shitting me?” Murphy gripes, pressing back against Connor's hand until his brother glances over. “Don't fucking start with that again, ye bloody twat. We've been over this.”

Connor has the decency to look embarrassed, at least. He's been a fucking arsehole for a while now because he can't deal with his own fucking shit.

“I would like to have a word with your brother.” Eunice smiles—at Connor. “If that's fine with you.”

“Fine with him?” Murphy jerks forward. “I don't need a therapy session, fucking Christ. I'm fine. I can work, we've worked already. I'm fucking _fine_.” Before he can lower his voice, Connor's leg presses against his. The fucker scoots after him with no respect for boundaries as usual. It's irritating and grounding, raising his bloody hackles, and then some more when Eunice smiles again, this time at him.

“That thought hasn't crossed my mind,” she says, glancing between them. “I would like a few words nonetheless.”

Murphy huffs and leans back, ready to give in while not ready to it admit it until Connor's hand slides around his neck and tilts his head toward him.

“Steady now,” he whispers, voice so quiet Murphy has to lean in even more to understand him. Or maybe it's because of his pounding heart, sort of stuttering and making him stupid even though Eunice is sitting opposite of them, able to fucking _see_ if not hear them.

“What's that supposed to mean?” Murphy whispers back, eyeing Eunice and her display of pretending to be occupied with sorting the papers back into the envelope. Her eyes are down, but even if they weren't; Connor is hidden by his profile and he clearly knows it.

Connor switches to Italian. It sounds awful. “It means ye should reign in that smile of yers or she's gonna get the wrong ideas.” For a breathless second, he stays close, then he stands and leaves the room with their dishes and a nod to Eunice.

Not to him, because that order was apparently sufficient enough to work as an explanation.

“I see you got over whatever your problem was about,” Eunice says as the door to the kitchen closes and the sound of running water filters through.

“Yeah.”

“But,” she says with a small sigh, “I have to ask, both for the sake of our work and our freedom: is there another problem?”

Murphy blinks, willing his mind to cooperate instead of trying to make sense of Connor's words—which were jealousy, possibly. But it makes no sense, there's nothing to be jealous about, especially not here and now—

“I wouldn't want to come between you,” Eunice says, and Murphy dies, internally.

“Sorry, I lost ye. Again please?”

She sighs again. “I noticed there's still tension between you, and like I said, I don't want to come between you or cause any problems, but Connor's behavior could be described as contrary. I'm sure he won't let me figure this out with him instead of you, so I'm asking you directly.”

Somewhere, he lost the thread of the discussion, or maybe he never had it in the first place. Her words don't make sense. “There's nothing to figure out,” Murphy says slowly. “And there's no problem either.” Which is a lie, but he's quite fucking sure she doesn't want to know about their collective wanking session in different rooms at the same time as a solution to not die of blue balls since Connor thinks the Devil makes his cock hard.

Fuck.

When Eunice smiles, it looks like she's ten steps ahead in her mind and forming a bloody plan. Murphy sits up and fucking focuses, only listening with half an ear whether Connor is still busy putting away the dishes.

“You've always been close,” she starts, voice soft enough to raise all of his alarms. “After an injury like yours, it's to be expected that his reaction to threats - real or imagined - is stronger than usual.” It sounds like she's reciting a lecture. “I wouldn't have said anything if I weren't worried, Murphy. I'm not trying to lay the blame where it doesn't belong.”

“Okay,” Murphy says.

“Before I go, I want you to promise me something.”

The warmth that spread through him thinking Connor might be jealous packed its bags and left, disappearing so completely there are only ashes left. “And what's that?” he asks, failing to sound polite even though he tries. He _does_.

“You can hold your own,” Eunice says without missing a beat. “Don't let him tell you otherwise.”

Murphy laughs, a short bark that sounds crazy enough he cuts it off immediately. He clears his throat and looks at Eunice's frown. “I've got no idea what yer saying.”

“I'm saying that I want you to promise me to call if you need anything. If it comes to a point where you doubt yourself, don't forget you're capable on your own.”

Acid burns its way up his throat, blocking his airway until he swallows. “I still don't get it,” he says even though he does. “I'm not being—dominated or whatever it is ye think is happening. I can do whatever the fuck I want, he doesn't have to allow me-”

“The kind of care your brother had to provide can result in not being able to let go of it,” Eunice says, and now it's clear she's repeating a lecture, maybe even a recent one. “I'm not saying this is the case yet, only that you know you can call me if the situation develops in that way.”

Part of him wants to laugh. It's the saner option, because another part of him wants to slap her, and he isn't like that. Never was, never planned to. “If that were the case, I'd clock him a good one,” Murphy says, voice thick and eyes averted in case she can read his mind. The silence goes on, stretching the seconds until it must've been a minute, then even longer, and it takes him way too long to understand what she's waiting for. He gets up from the couch and shakes his head. “I know yer trying to help, but this-”

She sighs, standing as well.

“This,” Murphy repeats, pointing toward the kitchen and back at himself, “isn't something I'm willing to discuss. Not even with ye. I'm sorry.”

“Of course.” She steps closer to him, smiling a smile that reaches all the way up to her eyes despite his awful thoughts. “But it was worth a try.”

“I appreciate the concern,” he makes himself say, unsure whether he means it and very fucking set on not mulling it over. If there was something to be concerned about, he'd be grateful, but this—compared to what they're going through now, his injury and the help Connor had to provide are as fucking insignificant as it gets.

It's not something he can say to her, and looking at her friendly face, at her arms hanging at her sides without any tension, so very practiced and at ease - he knows that was it. She made her point, she knows him, she knows how they are. Worth a try, but that was all.

“Con?” he calls.

It takes a few seconds, then Connor opens the door and wanders over.

“I'll be going now. The rest of the information is in the envelope, but please think it through before starting.”

“We will,” Murphy says, eyeing the smoke in Connor's hand before he steals it and twists away to evade Connor's arm—

The arm isn't trying to steal back the prize; it means to stay, lying heavily over his shoulders. His own is nudged against Connor's side, half a hug, half forced into place, basically confirming everything Eunice thinks is happening.

With a sigh, Murphy shakes his head. “He's a possessive one, I'll give ye that.”

Eunice rolls her eyes and steps forward to hug them. Connor drops his arm to the small of his back, and now that he knows where to look for it, Murphy sees the frown that comes with it just fine.

They escort her to the door while Connor's hand stays on his back, out of view, thank fuck, and after one last wave, they're alone again. The hand drops as soon as the door closes, and then Connor's frown settles on him again, full-out and mighty.

“What?”

“Why did ye say that? To her.”

Murphy wanders into the kitchen to check whether Connor loaded the dishwasher—to his shame, really, but it can't be helped. “To try to diffuse the fucking awkward tension. And don't tell me ye weren't eavesdropping.”

“I wasn't,” Connor says from behind him. “What did she want, then?”

Not something he can possibly make Connor understand.

He says it anyway—after confirming the dishwasher is running. “She thought yer dominating me.” Murphy grins, turning to watch the glory that is Connor's stricken face. “Probably because ye chose to whisper in my ear like ye were telling me how to behave when talking to her on my own.” It's mean, but he grins again, a strange, light feeling in his chest.

“That's ridiculous,” Connor tells the floor.

His heart hurts, sudden and painful. “Course it is,” Murphy mutters. “I told her I'd clock ye one if ye tried shite like that.”

“And ye would, no?”

“Aye.” Murphy watches him, the tension in Connor's shoulders, his hands getting buried in the pockets of his jeans, his lips moving around words he isn't voicing out loud. Something is coming and he's tired of it before even knowing. Bloody exhausted.

Slowly, he rounds Connor to reach the living room, feeling more than hearing his brother trudge after him.

“Do ye know why I did it?”

“No.” Yes. “Connor-”

“Tell me.”

“Why?” Murphy cries, making himself flinch and Connor even more. “Fucking stop teasing me.” His voice is down to a whisper without his input, and then he moves closer, holding up an accusing finger. “Don't ye remember how ye felt? Didn't ye fucking tell me about it, back when I didn't know? How can ye-”

“Murph,” Connor says, soft, hushed, shooting right into his belly. Into his heart too, turning his insides to goo. That's what Connor does, that's what his name on his brother's tongue does to him.

He wants to taste it.

“Don't go there if yer not willing to follow through,” Murphy says, clenching his jaw when Connor flinches again, but he isn't finished. “Don't ye fucking get it? Ye don't _want_ me to say it!”

Connor shakes his head, an aborted gesture. His shoulders are raised, the shirt stretches over them. “It's not my intention to-”

“Ye were jealous,” Murphy says, senseless.

“I'm sorry I've been so bloody awful to ye,” Connor says, raising his shoulders even more. A defensive position holding on for long enough something in Murphy's mind snaps.

“I don't care,” he says, and it's probably even the truth. It's nice to hear an apology, but the rest is far more important. “I care about ye teasing me. This morning. Yesterday. The day before that. Just now—it's enough to make me lose my fucking mind, all right? I promised myself I wouldn't ask again cause ye didn't want me to, and now yer making it so difficult...” Murphy trails off, face hot as he looks up to see Connor staring at his mouth.

Fog clouds his mind, making him take a step forward and then another, gently herding Connor until his back hits the wall and there's nowhere to go. And no word of refusal.

Murphy swallows, loud in the room despite his rapid heartbeat drowning out everything else. “Were ye jealous?” he whispers, looking at Connor looking back at him. He has to brace himself against the wall, caging Connor in as not to lose his mind.

They're not touching anywhere, and Connor looks like they've been at it for hours already.

“Ye promised yerself,” Connor says, peeling off the wall instead of fleeing, and that's the last fucking straw. “I asked that of ye, but ye didn't promise me. There's no promise to break.”

Murphy is on him. He reaches for Connor's hair, moaning even before they crash together. He wants his name, he fucking needs it, he has to lick it out of him—

“Murph,” Connor breathes out, leaving his lips parted for long enough Murphy slips in, too wet and so wrong it shoots through him like an electric shock. Connor breathed against him, talked against him, all his life. He knows his smell, he'd know it anywhere, it's so familiar that his taste being _unfamiliar_ makes him whine, alarmed and dark and sad, what the fuck, he shouldn't know this, it's a secret, it's Connor's to keep, he shouldn't know the taste of his teeth against his tongue.

He isn't the first, others know this as well, know even more of him, how he tastes when he isn't wearing clothes, how he tastes when he's moving over them and inside of them and how he tastes when he allows them to bury their heads between his legs and—

He'll have to taste him everywhere.

Everything goes so fast he can barely catch up, almost too dizzy to notice the details he's been aching for; the feeling of Connor's tongue underneath his own, his hands on his arms, the way he opens for him, letting him take, swallowing his moans, the whispers Murphy doesn't mean to pant out—it's Connor's name.

It's his brother only, nothing else.

Air is sparse, forcing him to take a few breaths and nip at Connor's lips instead.

He's so very pliant, it needs marveling over. Maybe it's Connor's thing, maybe he's a passive lover, preferring to let himself be kissed, to let him bite at his lips. The same lips he stared at for so long, fucking finally allowed to- to—

Something is wrong. With Connor.

Acutely afraid to look up, Murphy inches off, panting against Connor's face and throbbing between his legs, fucking illicit. When he draws off a bit more, Connor doesn't follow, neither when he drops his hands and leaves Connor's hair wild.

Connor sways, gently. Away from him, not toward him. His hands are wrapped around his arms, resting. He isn't pulling him back in or shoving him away, he isn't trying to kiss him again or gearing up to yell in his face.

He's pliant.

He didn't initiate the first kiss, did he—did he want for him to take control or did he _let_ him do it?

Several words pop into his head and the one that sticks says, whispers, talks into his mind—Connor let him and Connor endured. His face is blurry in their closeness, eyes dark, lips shiny and swollen from kissing. For all intents and purposes, Connor looks aroused, and Murphy needs to know, he fucking needs to know this isn't only him.

He glances down, whining softly.

It's not only him. The bulge in Connor's jeans is obvious, as is Connor seeing that he's seeing it.

“Connor,” Murphy croaks, kissing him again as nothing comes, not a thing, nothing at all, making his knees buckle with the force of something so heavy he can't breathe for a moment, then another right after, and another until he jerks out of reach and Connor still doesn't follow him. “I'm,” he says, planning to apologize.

It would be a lie—it wouldn't be, but he wouldn't be sorry about kissing him. He'd be sorry about bringing Connor into this situation and he'd feel sorry for himself, for having to feel this way even though he knew it was going to be like this. There was a reason they stuck to their plan, to the distance between them, and Connor said—he fucking said he wouldn't deny him.

There's a hole in his chest, making him numb. Murphy turns around and stares at the couch.

The table needs wiping.

He goes into the kitchen, takes a random towel, and walks back into the living room.

“Next time,” Connor says, voice so fucking small and full of resolve, Murphy instantly hates it, “Next time, I'll do better.”

Murphy spins around before he finishes the thought. “There won't be a fucking next time!”

“Murph, please.”

He rushes forward, pointing at his fucking brother and his fucking hoarse voice. “I promised myself and now look what happened! Ye can't fucking take it, Connor, don't ye dare pretend otherwise!”

“Please.”

Murphy stares and waits, waits, waits, and nothing comes, just that one word, cutting into his chest where he fucking thought there was a hole. It's a bloody lie, all of it. His heart is still there or it wouldn't be possible to feel it cut into tiny pieces. It's enough to make him sick, forcing bile up his throat until he turns away and stumbles into the kitchen.

The door shuts behind him, leaving him alone in the room. It was supposed to slam into the lock, but instead it's just a soft click and he can't let go of the handle, and then it's too much after all and he's fucking crying. He wipes his face before the tears have time to fall and stays in place until eventually, ages later, maybe a minute or an hour, he's able to let go of the door.

Then he sits down right where he stands and pretends he doesn't listen to the soft distressed noises from the other side; it's Connor cursing in every language they know and some only Connor knows. It's something else in-between, a choked sound, then another, and shoes on the carpet coming his way, walking away again.

Murphy sits.

*

They fall asleep without touching.

He wakes when it's pitch black in the room, Connor's arm heavy over his side, and he hates it so much he turns around, under the arm. They breathe against each other; Connor isn't sleeping. Of course he isn't. He looks back at him, quiet and unmoving until Murphy starts to make out details, eyes adjusting to the dark, forcing a sound of out him when he's able to see the look on Connor's face.

Sorry, that's what he is.

The arm tightens, pulling him in while Connor scoots forward until they're pressed together, his cheek resting against the rough stubble on Connor's throat, his arm squashed between them. He can't bring himself to hold him, it's impossible, he's empty, emotionally and fucking otherwise, and Connor seems to know. His brother always knows. His lips are on his forehead, planting a chaste kiss there.

“I'll do better,” Connor whisper.

Murphy shakes so he doesn't sob again and curls his fist against Connor's chest so he doesn't hold him, and Connor says it again, right into his hair, and again and again, repeating it until it's just a string of words, until they stop making sense and blur into each other, a soothing mumble that forces his heartbeat to slow and his eyes to fall shut.

_Forgive me my sins; the sins of my youth, the sins of my age, the sins of my soul, the sins of my body; my idle sins, my serious voluntary sins; the sins I know, the sins I do not know; the sins I have concealed for so long, and which are now hidden from my memory._


	13. Chapter 13

Murphy sits, smoking, watching people mill about in the parking lot, and he decidedly doesn't feel bad. Quite on the contrary; pretending the silence of waiting alone in the car is the same one as driving next to his brother without saying a word after a silent breakfast and silently getting up—it's easy.

It's as easy as spotting his brother coming out of the store with a bag of something Murphy has no interest in.

The gun pokes his hipbone, making him squirm, making him wonder whether Connor's sits just as uncomfortable. Whether he should sleep on the couch tonight, just in case.

“Murphy,” Connor says as he climbs back in and graces him with a sigh.

“What?”

Connor starts the car, head craned to point at the map in Murphy's lap. “We gotta change before we get there.”

They do, by a derelict gas station. When they're back on the road in overalls and a toolbox for each, they look like the most nondescript people on the planet, and Murphy has, in all honesty, no opinion on any of it. Not on spying on the gang, not on having to spend the time with Connor sitting in the car, not on sleeping in beds or on couches or maybe hanging from the ceiling like a fucking bat.

On the other hand, he has also no opinion on staying cooped up in the house with Connor lurking about at the edge of his vision, so Murphy squares his shoulders, reaches for a smoke, and sends a smile over.

Connor pulls a face. “We could try going into a coffee shop or something so we don't have to sit in the car all day.”

The smile wants to falter and Murphy won't let it. “Why, I thought ye'd be delighted to sit in the car with me all day.” Somewhere in his brain, there's a damage. It's not even funny, none of it, not when Connor's fucking plea—but it wasn't a plea. It was a simple statement. He told him he'd do better, and here they fucking are.

“Do mechanics even sit in coffee shops?” Connor says mildly.

Murphy shrugs and extracts himself from the decision making process by staring out of the window until Connor parks the car behind a van, close enough to see the entrance of the bloody hairdresser's shop and far enough away to be safe from prying eyes.

It's boring.

After a while, it's excruciatingly boring.

After an even longer while, Connor breathes out a sigh so long it raises the hair on Murphy's arms. He can imagine Connor's stink eye without seeing it, and he has no interest and opinion and thoughts or anything—about anything.

“I need ye to have faith in me,” Connor says.

“Do I.”

“I'm serious, Murph. I mean it. I need it.”

Being bored doesn't mean he prefers to have yet another conversation about something they're going to disagree on forever, but Connor's tone is sincere enough Murphy looks over and tries to sense his mood. “Okay,” he says at length. “But ye bloody well know that I have faith in ye.”

As predicted, the stink eye comes, real and nasty. “Don't make me say it,” Connor says sort of threateningly, and Murphy looks back at the shop again.

“Wouldn't dream of it.”

They sit in silence until Murphy feels compelled to calm his nerves by lighting a smoke.

“It won't work if ye keep wanting to talk about it. I already said I wouldn't—do that again.”

“I meant to talk about us.”

“Don't,” Murphy says, glancing over. “We don't have to. I won't do it again, like I said. I promised I'd let it go and I bloody well will.”

“That's good.” Connor nods, and then he doesn't stop nodding at all. “That's grand, Murph. Good for fucking ye, because I won't.”

“Yer an arsehole.”

“I can't.” Connor shrugs, and Murphy's heart skips a beat simply from hearing Connor admit it, but the back and forth of Connor's fucking morals frays his nerves either way.

“What's that mean, then?” Murphy gripes. “Are ye asking me to be patient? I can be fucking patient. What I can't do is what we're doing right here, going in fucking circles. Ye want me to wait, ye gotta tell me.”

A honk goes off, rushing past as a car speeds by. Connor hasn't stopped nodding. “I'm telling ye,” he says, eyes on the wheel. “Well, I want ye to, is all. Can't tell ye what to do, but I'm telling ye it won't stay like this forever, and that's good, no? A start.” Connor glances over without turning his head, only moving his eyes and looking so fucking unsure Murphy is surprised no one comes knocking at the window to ask what the fucking problem is. “Good enough?” Connor asks after a while, and Murphy looks away because he remembers his taste and the small sound Connor made when he scraped his teeth over his lips, and none of this is good enough.

It simply isn't, and he has no idea how to make his brother understand he needs more without sounding needy, without being too demanding of something he wasn't aware of needing for the longest time.

“I'm trying to work it out,” Connor hurries. “I need an explanation, brother. It's fine that ye don't, but I can't do it without. I need—something. But I will figure it out.”

That's better. It's not good, but it's _something_ , at last, and then Connor lets out a shaky sigh.

“He created sinners in the hope they'd withstand temptation, no?”

A headache creeps up his neck, leaving him raw. There's no bloody way they're going to talk about the Devil again. No chance at all. “I don't know,” Murphy says, trying for peace. “Explain to me what yer looking for, aye? I could help.”

The smoke between Connor's fingers burns out, ash turning cold and gray without him noticing. With the radio turned down, the quiet hitch in his breath is almost loud in the confined space; intimate and too close and not close enough all at once, and he already knows what Connor can't make himself say. His brother wants to talk about atonement, and that's not only a fucking stupid thing to begin with, but he can't fucking take it either.

“I don't think we're going to get absolution,” Murphy says just to get it out there, to rip off the band-aid. Then he averts his eyes, waiting for the answer.

It takes a while before Connor's voice comes again, “Redemption.”

“Stopping, ye mean.”

With a sigh, Connor abandons the target for good. “Redemption means separation, Murph.”

There's nothing, just the hole in his chest that isn't one. “Is that what ye want?”

Connor stares at the overflowing ashtray, a small sound stuck in his throat as he reaches over without making contact. “What I want,” he says roughly, “What I want is for ye to take control. I've been lost in this fucking limbo for so long, Murph, I'm stuck. I'm stuck and I need ye to find an answer.”

“Aye,” Murphy says before he can think about it, and then he backpedals just as quickly. “Ye want—what? That I come up with an excuse for sinning?”

Connor scoots over, fingers tight around the edge of Murphy's seat, brushing against his thigh. “Don't ye fucking get that I'll only be happy by loving ye?” he asks, polite. “The way I want to, not the way I'm supposed to. Ye aren't the only one hurting here.”

His face burns, hot with shame and something else, something he doesn't want to name. It's not important anyway; he's being selfish again and Connor never said it out loud, that he loves him. Not once even though they both know and— “I'm sorry,” Murphy mumbles. He doesn't dare look up, but he grips the hand on his seat, focusing on Connor's knuckles, on the soft skin on the back of his hand, and that's enough for now.

“Ye know I'd go with ye, no?” Connor pulls his hand away and curls his fingers around Murphy's wrist, holding on tight as his voice drops to a whisper. “I'd be with ye even if it means going against what I know to be right. None of this was supposed to happen in the first place.”

“Con-”

“Ye know why?” Connor goes on. “Because I'll have to choose and I already know what will win.”

There it is, the question underneath Connor's rambling, the one he doesn't say out loud and needs help with nonetheless. The decision— _the_ _decision_ is already made, and Connor's soul, in his opinion, is doomed without an explanation.

_Hail Mary, full of Grace._

There can't be an answer that will satisfy them both. He will have to lie, but if Connor needs it enough to ask for it, he'll bear that lie for him. Of course he will. “I'll take control,” Murphy says. “If ye want me to.”

His fingers tighten, then Connor withdraws and sits back in his seat. “I do.”

They sit, bloody awkward, while a truck passes by. People cross the street, chatting, bustling around on their way to their next appointment, and here they sit, making a decision that was long overdue and will end in eternal suffering for their souls, probably.

Murphy clears his throat. “We good for now?” he asks to fill the silence and to pretend his hand isn't still tingling from the too short touch. When Connor gives him a nod, he fumbles for a smoke and jerks back as the lighter appears in front of his face. Connor holds it in place until smoke fills the car, and then he still doesn't sit back. “Thanks,” Murphy tries, vague and with a vague heat rising in his cheeks.

Connor grins, a bit lopsided, and throws himself back in his seat. “We're bloody awful at this. Who knows what happened over there the last 15 minutes, eh?” He shakes his head, eyes locked onto the shop again. “And yer fucking beautiful like this.”

“In overalls?”

There's no answer, and it takes Murphy a while to redirect his focus toward their observation rather than replaying the words in his head. He won't ask for an explanation, it's too embarrassing, but thinking about looking pretty in fucking overalls and a baseball cap is ridiculous.

And makes his heart pound.

Connor snorts and rams an elbow into his side. “Fucking dense, the lot of them,” he states, nodding across the street.

Murphy follows his line of sight and blinks at the two men lurking by the door of the shop. Judging from their buzzcuts, they're very obviously not in need of a haircut, and then the door opens and they're greeted by a man in a fancy suit, hair slicked back and carrying a backpack like a bloody tourist.

“Really?” Murphy says, because—really.

“Ye think they're selecting the members of their merry gang by their hairstyles?”

“They _are_ operating out of a hairdresser's shop,” Murphy points out, grinning.

Connor looks over in horror, then he shakes his head. “Be that as it fucking may, there's no need to hang around until they see us. Ye got them?”

Taking one last look to remember their faces, Murphy nods and pulls his cap into his face as they drive past them. He's sure he'll recognize the three of them later, and he wants to play through how they go from here, he really fucking wants to, but it's not as crucial as the task Connor assigned to him.

For a few moments, Murphy tries to be an at least somewhat productive member of this duo, then he gives up and starts weeding through his mind to find a solution for their damnation problem.

By the time they're back at the house, his slight headache blossomed into a full one, Connor shoots him sidelong glances, and Murphy has no idea where to even start looking for an answer. He can't think of a book which could prove helpful in any way—unlike the last time. There's nothing in the Holy Texts to ease Connor's burden.

Quite the fucking opposite, if he's honest. He knows his faith by heart, and that way lies nothing but despair.

Murphy thinks and thinks and thinks. Eventually, he broods, then he broods while eating dinner, taking a shower, and watching TV, and it goes on until Connor mumbles his evening prayer, then something clicks at long last.

A vague idea he needs to sleep on, but a start nonetheless.

*

It's not the right approach. By bringing it up, he'll repel Connor, and it's the best thing he can come up with next to an outright lie.

Murphy stalls.

“Are ye going to tell me?”

Breakfast is finished and they won't sit at the table for much longer, and there's only so much stalling one person can do. Murphy shakes his head.

“Are ye serious?” Connor pushes himself up from the table, eyelids drooping.

“Ye won't like it,” Murphy says before he loses his nerve. “I know ye won't.”

“But ye think ye got something?”

“Aye.”

Connor squares his shoulders and leans back against the counter, dishtowel in hand even though they haven't even cleared the table yet. “Then aye, I probably won't like it.” He licks his lips. “Let's hear it.”

Fine.

“It's always 'For Thee, my Lord, for Thee',” Murphy says slowly, “And I got to thinking - what do we get?”

Connor stares, face blank.

“If all of this is for Him, there could be something we get as a reward as well.” Murphy stands, heart in his throat, and closes in on his brother. “This could be it, no?”

“I don't think so,” Connor says, both hopeful and appalled while his cheeks begin to fill with color. Murphy inches closer, feeling high as Connor shakes his head without stepping away. “There's no—reward for being faithful. That's just blasphemous.”

He wants to kiss him. The goal is within reach, only a few inches away. “Ye gotta think about it,” Murphy says. “Can't just dismiss it without thinking it through.”

He's on the verge of begging and Connor still doesn't move away, so Murphy closes the last distance between them and brushes his lips against Connor's, dry and warm and without any reaction at all. He's kissing a fucking statue—one that lets out a pitiful groan as Murphy draws off again.

“Think about it,” he instructs, softening it with a smile that hopefully comes out right. He refuses to come up with a different solution as long as Connor waves this one off without thinking it through, and even if he did—this is it already, a possible goldmine.

Nothing describes them to their core like their family prayer does. The Bible is one thing, but their faith always consisted of more; passed down traditions, a deep-seated feeling of belonging, the church as a medium to cater to those needs. It wouldn't make sense to look elsewhere when this prayer is what they built their lives around from the start.

*

“Ye think it's because it's just the two of us here?” Connor asks after another day of observation. They're lounging on the couch and he's cleared his throat often enough Murphy's eye has been twitching for a while.

Now his brother stares ahead with a look that says he's contemplating something heavy - fucking major - and Murphy has to squeeze the bloody eye shut. “It's always been just the two of us,” he points out.

Connor sighs. “Aye, that's right. Suppose that's the reason, then.”

The opposite, in fact. Actually, Murphy thinks, that's something he should say. So he does, while leaning over until they're pressed together from shoulder to knee. “Ye got it wrong,” he states, and one moment of being contrary is enough to give his eye a rest after all. “It means it was always there.”

“Don't say that.”

“Well, but I did, ye arse. Ye could try to listen instead of only talking to me when ye feel like holding a monologue.”

Connor blinks, eyebrows high on his forehead. “Please don't hold back.”

It's mocking, and Murphy has enough. “When did ye know?” he asks—demands. There's no answer. “When did ye know, Connor? If I'm not to 'say that', I assume ye mean to tell me it's new, the entire shitshow? Even though ye said that it happened for ye before—ye know. Before.”

“I'm not going to answer that,” Connor says, looking actually shy for a moment, and Murphy deflates like a balloon. He reaches out, planning to slap Connor's head, but then his fingers land in Connor's hair and he ends up carding through it.

“Then don't tell me what I'm allowed to say or not,” Murphy says quietly, warm all over as Connor rubs back against his hand and closes his eyes.

“I'm not cuddling with ye,” Connor says as Murphy scratches over his scalp. It's nice and warm, good. It's another half-finished kiss, a preview of what could be and a reminder of what he possibly won't ever have.

Murphy swallows, pulling him closer. “Think we're ready for the execution tomorrow?”

Connor nods against his hand, a soft sound rumbling through his throat that makes his love rises to terrifying heights.

“Yer like a cat.”

“Shut it.”

Fucking love, Murphy thinks, pulling him in until Connor's head is pillowed on his shoulder. “Why won't ye tell me?” he asks eventually, quiet and vague in case the question will end the spell, and then Connor huffs against his throat.

“Cause I don't want to.”

Feeling his way to the edge of Connor's hairline, Murphy thinks, warm all over as he fingers the soft skin behind Connor's ear. “Tell me anyway.”

“Is this ye trying to persuade me by petting me?”

“Maybe.” Murphy grins. “Is it working?”

“It fucking is,” Connor mumbles. “Love yer hands.” He buries closer, breathing against Murphy's neck. “Doesn't matter though, I can't tell ye what I don't know myself.”

Murphy hums, heart thudding steadily. “Yer not lying to me, no?”

“I'm not. The fuck does it matter anyway?”

“It doesn't.” It really doesn't, he just wants to keep Connor talking. And maybe, deep down, to feel good about knowing he was loved - desired even - before he knew about the possibility.

They sit in a silence so comfortable, Murphy dares to be bold and moves to follow the line of Connor's jaw to the soft skin beneath, fingertips catching on faint stubble until he's rewarded with a sigh. “Can I ask a question?” he asks quietly. Connor grunts. “At our birthday-”

“I was drunk.” Connor sighs again, then he shifts closer and lowers his voice, “The bed smelled like ye.”

Retreat—

“I didn't get it when it first started. The only thing I knew was that it was a problem and that is was easier to ignore when Da was still around.” Connor huffs out a small sound. “Rocco before that. I don't know whether it came gradually or whether it just happened one day. I don't want ye to ask, aye? It's- And at out birthday, I guess I just longed for ye.”

“Okay,” Murphy says because it turns out he didn't really want to know after all. This isn't his forte, never has been, so he pulls Connor closer instead, arm tight around his back and glad about it, because the next time Connor speaks, he's only able to catch it due to their closeness.

“Might've been years.” A mumbled confession, then Connor draws back and glares at him. “And I remember saying there won't be any cuddling.”

Murphy rolls his eyes, rubbing them to get rid of the uncalled-for wetness there. “'m knackered anyway,” he says when he can see again. “Let's go to bed.”

There's a noise that sounds like a laugh. Murphy cranes his head to look at him.

“Can't go to bed now, brother.”

It takes several moments of staring at the stupid grin Connor is sporting, at the flush on his cheeks, until Murphy catches up. He blinks, following the line of Connor's body down to the impressive reason as to why he wouldn't want to go to bed with him. Now.

“Oh,” Murphy says. “Good reasoning.” He nods and flexes his fingers, reasonable, fighting them so he doesn't accidentally—do something. Connor is still so close, it would only take one movement, one hand on Connor's back, the other on his thigh, and he could pull him in his lap—

“For fuck's sake, Murph.”

One day, he should ask what his face looks like when he's thinking about his brother or he'll get arrested for doing it in public. “Shut up,” Murphy says belatedly, then he stands and adjusts himself where it's needed, face on fire and head high. “It's just as well. Need some time on my own.”

There's a pause.

“Are ye shitting me?”

“I am not.” Their pretense flew out of the window a while ago, what's left to say that Connor doesn't know already? “Technically, I could wait until it goes away on its own, I guess.” Murphy grins. “But it's more fun this way, no?”

Before he's out of the room, something hits his back—it's the remote. Murphy looks back over his shoulder and forces himself to stop from turning fully even though Connor sits so blatantly aroused with his legs splayed and eyes dark. “Gimme ten. Don't come in before that,” he says, then he leaves.

It's the only thing he has power over nowadays, the only thing he knows Connor wants and that he won't give to him, and he shouldn't feel high on seeing Connor sink back into the cushions with a defeated look on his face, and yet—he fucking wins.

Murphy grins again, somewhat dark even though he fucking _loses_ as well, and closes the door behind him.

In the end, it doesn't take ten minutes. It never takes that long anymore, but he still feels endlessly more relaxed as he gets into the bed, the edge taken off and Connor boneless and soft beside him. Clearly, Connor was busy as well; he rewards him with letting himself be arranged as Murphy sees fit.

It's a nice change for a start. It's good.

Almost as good as the real thing.

*

His head is pillowed on Connor's shoulder and instead of being able to enjoy this for as long as it lasts, his first instinct is to get closer, to press against, feel, touch, taste. Stuck in limbo, that's what Connor had said, and he isn't only failing to pull him out of it, he's joining him by creating his own personal Hell while walking the fucking earth.

_In Thy goodness and mercy, grant that before I die I may regain all the graces which I have lost through my carelessness and folly. Permit me to attain the degree of merit and perfection to which Thou didst desire to lead me, and which I failed by my unfaithfulness to reach._

Murphy gets up and makes coffee, and when the caffeine fails to lift his mood, he tries scrambled eggs and as many cigarettes he can smoke in a row until his mouth burns and ash scatters everywhere. When Connor stumbles in, it gets better, but then he remembers that he can't reach for him, never able to fucking sate the need to be closer, and his mood turns sour for good.

Almost as good as the real thing, what the fuck did he smoke last night, fucking Christ, and he wouldn't even want Connor close at all times, only sometimes, only—

“Yer good?” Connor asks around his coffee.

“Dunno,” Murphy says, standing. “It's nothing.”

Throughout the morning, the tension in him rises until it's choking him, and after they go through their exercises and take turns in the shower, it's late enough to get ready for work and he doesn't know what to do any longer. Can't go on a job this distracted, can't not go on a job because he got up on the wrong foot.

With a sigh, Murphy takes his rosary and sits down on the bed.

_In the name of the Father-_

“What's going on?” Connor stands in the doorway, hands on his hips and a frown on his face.

“Nothing ye don't know about,” Murphy says, and it's the truth. He stands and rounds Connor, walking on until he's outside, pretending he can't hear Connor's quiet footsteps following him. On the steps of the porch, he sits and closes his fingers around his rosary.

_Our Father, Who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy name-_

“If ye are like that, I won't go on a mission and risk my bloody life,” Connor says, hovering. “We take the day to go over the plan and get ready.”

_Hail Mary, full of Grace-_

“Are ye praying?” Connor asks, voice incredulous as if him praying is fucking unheard-of.

“I'm bloody trying.”

“What're ye praying for?”

Murphy focuses, eyes closed, trying to pin the bloody feeling that raises his hackles like it has no business to, but it's impossible with Connor lurking behind him. “For relief, Connor, if yer familiar with that concept.”

_Glory be to the Father-_

“Relief of what?”

The porch creaks behind him, then beside him. Murphy gives up with a sigh and opens his eyes to stare at a dry patch of grass as Connor walks down the steps and positions himself in front of him.

“The fuck's the matter with ye?”

“I don't know,” Murphy mutters. He shrugs, squinting up against the sun. “Guess I came to my senses.”

Connor jerks back like he's been hit. “Murph, wait- Just wait. Let's go inside, aye? We go inside and talk about it.”

“What?”

“We talk about it, talk it through,” Connor presses out, and Murphy stands with his heart clenching.

“Yer bloody thick, ye know that? Even if I stopped wanting ye like I do, I'd never fucking drop it this fucking casually, ye fucker.”

Connor doesn't look convinced, but he does follow him back inside and lowers his voice the moment the door falls shut behind them, “What did ye understand, then? If it's something else.”

The fact that he lied about their family prayer offering the best option for them both, that no matter what bloody solution he will come up with, it won't ever satisfy them both.

Murphy lowers himself on the armrest of the couch, numb. He stretches his leg to have something to focus on that isn't his brother, then he decides to be as honest as possible. “I don't want to play down what ye went through when ye were alone in this,” he says, cringing already but forcing himself to go on, “but the fucking situation we're stuck in can't compare. It's worse now.”

“That doesn't make any sense,” Connor says, overly calm and with a bloody soothing smile on his face.

“Yeah, it does. There's hope now. I know ye didn't have it back then, but now I have—I had fucking hope.”

“Had.”

“I thought I-” Murphy clears his throat against the lump ruining his voice and pretends Connor isn't frozen on the spot. “I can't have ye, no? But at the same time, I know I _could_. It's not impossible like it was for ye and that makes it different. I just- I thought it would make this easier.”

For a few seconds, nothing moves, then Connor starts pacing back and forth without so much as glancing at him. It's a look Murphy has seen before, in his dreams. Dozens of times, maybe even hundreds; wringing hands, lines on his forehead, an air of desperation surrounding him.

It's his doing. It always is, nowadays.

“I asked ye to-” Connor stops in front of him, face pale and eyes darting all over him. This his doing as well, making his brother unsure of himself. “Ye said there was an answer,” Connor says. “Murph, please, I can't do it. Ye've got to be the one. I need ye to come up with an answer.”

“Connor-”

“Please,” he says, and Murphy clenches his fists to stop himself from reaching out.

“But I already did,” he says, trying for gentle. “It wasn't what ye wanted but it was exactly what I needed. Maybe we're just different in that way. Don't have to be the same in every aspect.” He shrugs because he doesn't know what else to do, and then he reaches out after all and wraps his fingers around Connor's wrist.

“If ye explain it again, maybe...”

“Con, I did. I did and it didn't work, no?” They look at each other until Murphy averts his eyes. “This thing—what we're doing here ruins everything. There's no solution, don't ye see?”

“Listen-”

“And I think that means it's time we think about alternatives.”

“Fucking shut it.” Connor pushes into his space, wrist twitching under Murphy's fingers. “We're almost there. We almost fucking got it, don't ye fucking dare to quit now! Not after everything we already-”

“What, achieved?” Murphy scoffs, swallowing right after. “I don't do it just for the fucking sake of it, I just don't know how to move this along.”

“Ye said ye'd find a way, so find a bloody way. That's how we fucking move this along. Or weren't ye listening? Murphy?”

Murphy stares, heart hammering.

“I fucking told ye,” Connor rasps, shaking his wrist loose to clench his fingers into Murphy's shirt, pulling him forward with the strength of his grip. “I told ye there's no going back for me. If ye don't- Ye don't want me, brother, it won't change a thing. We find no solution, it won't _change a thing_. I'll choose ye even when I can't justify my actions in front of the Lord himself, so fucking tell me again.” Connor shakes him, eyes wild. “Tell me again. Explain it until it sticks.”

Torn between the mighty urge to curl up somewhere and hide from it all so he can't be held responsible for Connor losing his faith, Murphy takes a deep breath, then he pushes his chest back against Connor's hand. Just the slightest bit, just to feel his warmth, but it's enough to calm him down so he's able to lay out his next words and make them as convincing as possible. “I'm thinking the Lord will grant us something for all the good we've been doing,” he starts, and Connor winces already.

“Asking the Lord if he's fine with us sinning.” His voice is small, a bit unsure like he thinks he's misunderstanding him—which he fucking does.

“I won't ask for His permission,” Murphy states. “Don't need it, Con, I only need yers. What I'm talking about is His understanding, ye know? Cause we've been doing _His_ work after all.”

There's silence, heavy, as Murphy waits, mind reeling from knowing Connor would go to fucking Hell for him even though he knew since forever, since they came here, since before, since Connor took his hand and said it'd be all right as Ma left them in kindergarten for the first time. He knew, and right in front of him, a change goes through Connor.

He's making up his mind about something, and Murphy acutely fears he doesn't want to know what it is in case his heart will be broken for good.

“Like what ye said before. A reward,” Connor says, voice dull and eyes distant.

“Aye,” Murphy says, preparing as Connor drops his hands, obviously thinking.

Connor will decide now. He will take the decision from him despite pleading for him to do it because _Connor_ is the strong one, he always fucking was, and the only thing Murphy can contribute is a dumb nod as he holds his breath to not miss his next words.

No answer yet.

Murphy waits.

Connor thinks.

There are no bloody next words.

He has to pee. He craves a smoke, but none is within reach and leaving the room to find one could lead to several catastrophes, so Murphy steps back and paces instead. When that doesn't help either and Connor seems set on standing on the same spot until he's old and gray and the decision will be taken from him by natural causes, Murphy forces himself to say it out loud, that thing which has taken over his mind,

“Ye are my reward.” It comes out firm, and he's momentarily proud even though his nerves are all over the place and Connor doesn't seem to notice he's there any longer. “If ye think yer going to Hell, I'll go with ye,” he adds in case Connor doesn't know. “I always would've done that. I'd burn with ye for however long it takes, ye gotta know that.”

Connor awakes. “Oh, I fucking know,” he snaps, and he actually shakes his fist in Murphy's direction, easing the tension at once. He's so dumb. Murphy loves him. “But there's no way ye mean it. If it weren't for me, ye wouldn't even have these thoughts.”

 _Very_ dumb. He still loves him, though. Nothing to be done about that.

“See, Con, that right there makes me believe ye don't know anything. That infection-theory of yers is horseshit. Didn't ye hear me? I always would've gone with ye, none of this is fucking new. I just didn't know what it meant, is all.”

“ _That's_ horseshit,” Connor barks, stance wide and brows furrowed. “Believe me, I would've fucking known.”

“Well, ye didn't,” Murphy says. “I didn't know either-”

“No way ye can be sure about it then.”

“Are you gonna let me fucking speak or what?” Here they are again, arguing despite the topic being so fundamentally important. He stares Connor down until he receives a nod, then he sighs and starts anew. “If I had understood sooner, we would've had this exact same fight years ago.”

“Elaborate.”

Murphy flares his nostrils lest he explodes, unable to wrap his head around the fact that Connor insists on sticking to his theory of turning him into someone who wants to willingly sin instead of finding a way to solve their never-ending shitfest of a problem. It's bloody useless; Connor has that mulish look about him and he won't listen to anything if they don't get this problem out of the way first.

With a sigh, Murphy sorts through his memories, past birthdays, bars, dares, fights while Connor vibrates on the spot. “Right,” he says eventually. “I always watched how Rocco touched ye. And I always wanted for ye to spend less time with yer girls.” A lifetime ago. Back in their moldy apartment, though not toward the end. There were no more girlfriends, flings, lasses. He can't remember the last one, hazy in his memory like it held no significance at all.

Which means it did. He should've realized.

“Remember that one time?” Murphy says, stepping closer. “Ye brought that lass back to our place thinking I wouldn't come home for a while.”

Connor snaps up his eyes.

Murphy grins, fists clenched. “Ye were on yer bed. She sat on ye like- And it wasn't even the right way around. She didn't even look at ye, had her back to ye instead.” An unholy mix of anger and arousal tries to set something in his mind on fire, forcing him to take a breath, go the last step, “I remember thinking 'I want to put my mouth there'.”

“Murph-”

“Between her legs. Where ye were fucking into her for everyone to see.” Not everyone. Only him. He swallows. “I almost asked, I was- But then ye both started yelling and I left.” He shakes his head to clear the image away. “Not exactly something a brother should think, no?”

“Murph,” Connor whispers, “that was fucking years ago.”

“Aye.”

They look at each other, too close, Connor's face blurry in the details. It's not important. He knows his face, knows everything there is to know about it, and he hopes Connor knows him just as well, and how serious he is. About it all.

“I haven't changed my mind since even if it took me ages to understand it.” He pauses. “Even after I knew about ye.”

The last secret, a shameful one, and Connor waves it away. “I thought ye were staring at her. Back then, I thought-”

“Well, I did,” Murphy says, grinning.

“I thought ye were looking at her. I- Murphy.” Connor flounders, eyes wide and color coming back to his cheeks. “Two dumb fucks we are, fucking Christ. Hail Mary - but Murph, ye said it didn't work. That's what ye fucking said, and ye even prayed over it, no? And now yer telling me-”

“I'm telling ye I didn't have a change of heart since back then cause ye were fucking well set on taking this on yerself, that's what I'm doing. I also had some innuendos ready to go if ye'd asked a few more questions about that particular situation.”

Connor rolls his eyes.

“And,” Murphy says, coughing. “I was feeling dramatic. If it hasn't changed yet, I think I won't ever.”

Connor rolls his eyes again as if he thinks that'd cover up the weird look in them.

“But if I caught ye again, I wouldn't ask to join,” Murphy states. “I wouldn't share. I'd throw her out and take her place.”

It's Connor's cue to extract himself from the situation.

Murphy follows, heart light and acid burning in his throat. Maybe that's simply how it's going to be from now on; him over-sharing, Connor giving him an inch or two, and resetting everything in the morning.

He can't do it forever, but for now—for now, he'll bear it.

In the kitchen, Connor lights a smoke. “Ye can't say things like that.”

He will fucking bear it.

“Ye can't say fucking things like that,” Connor repeats, breathless. He holds out the smoke, then his body follows and he stops right in front of him. The filter presses against Murphy's lips and only leaves after he took a drag. “Let's go shoot them. Now. Let's get to work.”

His chest expands and expands with the fucking love he has for Connor, pressing the air out of him until he's sure his voice would sound ridiculous, so Murphy merely nods, agreeing in silence like he's done so many times in his life.

Connor laughs, sudden and unexpected, and takes a step back. “I thought I'd have to convince ye. All right, I'll get our stuff. Ye want this?”

Murphy nods again, receiving the smoke. His heart sings, and they leave within minutes.


	14. Chapter 14

As soon as the last buzzcut enters the hair salon, they rush down the deserted street while staying clear of the street lamps as best as they can. A few feet from the door, Connor stops and turns to him, gloved fingers creaking around the handle of his gun. “Ready?”

The day went from nice to horrible to breathless, and now they're here and he needs to bloody focus. Murphy holds up his finger and quickly rechecks his gun, then he nods and watches as Connor tests the handle. The door is unlocked, but a small bell hangs from the ceiling right behind it.

“Con,” he whispers, pointing at it.

Connor nods, peeking inside. After a bit of maneuvering, Murphy opens the door while Connor reaches up to keep the bell from jingling, then they're inside and close the door quietly.

No one comes running.

No one shuffles into the main room by chance and no one walks down the corridor either. It's so easy it almost doesn't feel right, but most definitely - it doesn't feel _good_.

Murphy pulls a face and follows Connor around the corner—after taking a quick look, this time.

They spot the first man in the hallway between the main and backrooms. It's the man they saw before, not one of the targets they're looking for, and he goes down with Connor's silenced bullet ripping through his throat. The guy drops with a dull thud and a faint gurgle, and they move on without watching him die in case the quiet noise alerted the others, hurrying toward the next door just as the second enforcer comes ambling out of what seems to be the bathroom.

He's as big as a mountain and the flush is still running. Murphy has a single second of panic, then his arm rises on its own and the guy falls like a tree, actually shaking the ground with his weight.

“Come on,” Connor hisses, jerking his head toward the last door. He gets into position, waits for him to do the same, and swings the door open.

It's an office, dingy and clouded with smoke, and their apparent targets are bent over papers. They either didn't hear the others go down or they're particularly thick - it doesn't matter. It's disappointing, that's what it is.

He's pumped, righteous, ready to prosecute justice and get his revenge, and these stupid fuckers blink at them instead of trying to put up a fight.

Connor aims and Murphy follows, and then it's over before his adrenaline has time to make his hands jittery and his heartbeat rush in his ears. The stink of blood spills into the room, mixing with the smoke, with bodily fluids he doesn't want to know about, and none of this is satisfying.

They're dead and he doesn't care and Connor frowns at him while he gets more nervous by the second instead of calming down.

“Thought they'd be more impressive,” he offers, but it's not enough, it needs to be fucking said—but Connor isn't even looking at him, he's busy with the backpack businessman. “Connor.”

“Mh?”

“Quit poking him, he's fucking dead.”

Connor flips him off, but he does stop and turns with his head cocked. “What? Are we sad this didn't evolve into a shootout?”

“Nah.”

Aye.

Even if they weren't the ones themselves - these men belonged to the group who managed to take them by surprise. They shot them and maimed him for fucking life, and here they fucking lay, dead without having put up any fight while he, for once, synchronized with Connor like he hasn't in a while. Nothing about this is fucking okay.

He refuses to pray.

Connor shoves him and forces him down on his knees. Blood seeps into his jeans and Murphy wrangles himself loose, struggling up to ram his elbow into Connor's middle.

Connor groans, doubling over. “A coincidence,” he presses out, wheezing as he straightens again. He grips him by the arm and digs his fingers into his flesh until Murphy stills. “It was a coincidence. An unhappy one, aye, but they were no masterminds or fucking villains. They were bad men who got a lucky hit, who took a piss at the right moment and saw us coming, who noticed our car—it doesn't matter. It was a _coincidence_ , nothing more.”

It hurts somewhere deep he doesn't care to look for. Murphy blinks down and breathes through his mouth to not inhale the stink in the room.

“Murph,” Connor mumbles. “Brother. We pray now and then we get the fuck out of here.”

For all his talk about sinning, of course he believes in doing the Lord's work despite this particular job involving more revenge than it should have. Not praying wouldn't make him any better than the dead men on the floor, and the sins he already piled onto his soul are enough to last him a lifetime.

They pray - Murphy adds a silent apology - and leave.

_I sought the Lord, and he heard me: yea, he delivered me out of all my fear. They shall look unto him, and run to him: and their faces shall not be ashamed, saying, This poor man cried, and the Lord heard him, and saved him out of all his troubles._

*

Due to the empty streets at the late hour, the drive back takes half the time of the previous one. With the radio playing softly in the background, they sit in a strangely comfortable silence even though Connor, thankfully from the passenger seat, keeps shooting him glances without ever speaking up.

“What?” Murphy asks eventually.

Connor shrugs, fingers tapping an idle rhythm against the door.

It's not nothing, and soon after, the nothing crawls on his skin.

When they're almost back at the house, Connor switches from observing him to staring at the road, back straight and face bloody fucking weird. “Tired?” he asks.

Murphy squints. The adrenaline of the execution hasn't worn off yet, neither has the feeling of their earlier conversation despite the fact that Connor stopped grinning and started wiping his hands on his thighs instead. His brother, out and about to ruin the mood. “Not really,” Murphy says after watching him squirm for a bit. “Why, got plans?”

“Nah.”

That's that.

They stop talking until they're back at the house and the car is parked behind it. Deciding to leave him be, Murphy wanders to the fridge and helps himself to some juice, halfway raised to his fucking mouth by the time he notices Connor lurking in the doorway. “ _What_?”

“Nothin',” Connor says. Then he leaves.

There it goes again, the good mood. Murphy puts the juice away, stomach in knots, and follows his brother into the bedroom.

Inside, the curtains are drawn, the light is on, and Connor stands in the middle of their chaos, turning in a circle while looking stupid and flustered and refraining from meeting his eyes. His coat dangles from his hand like he tries very hard to find a place for it to go.

“Spit it out, Connor.”

Connor drops the coat right where he stands and faces him. “I get it now,” he says, frowning. “I'm weak.”

Murphy leans against the door frame.

“I'm weak,” Connor repeats, wringing his hands like he plans to will him to understand.

He doesn't, and he has no interest in another fight either. “And where does that come from, if I may ask? Hit yer head or something?” Murphy kicks off his shoes, and there's still no answer when he straightens back up, just Connor's weird face and then his backside as he disappears into the bathroom. “Good talk,” Murphy comments, making for the kitchen again.

“Wait, stop. Where're ye going?”

Trudging back in, Murphy lifts his arms and watches as Connor bustles through the room and hectically rids himself of his shoes and turtleneck as if whatever he plans to say cannot be said while wearing fucking shoes. Which is a weird thought and slightly disturbing. Murphy crosses his arms in preparation, and then he isn't prepared at all when Connor crowds into his space with a wild look on his face.

“I'm weak, Murphy.”

“I've got no idea what that means,” Murphy stresses, but Connor doesn't seem to hear him; his hand comes up, tapping gently until Murphy uncrosses his arms and gives Connor room to—lift his rosary from his neck.

Obviously, he missed something. Something _crucial_ , something he should be aware of.

Connor puts the rosary down with a soft clink, then his own as well. “Do something for me,” he says, turning again, reaching for him with a rosy face. “Take control, aye?”

Blood rushes in his ears, pounding in time with his heart. He can't move. It's not explicit enough, he can't be sure, and he wants to jump Connor, rip off his clothes or break his jaw—

“Yer the one. Yer the one who has to do it. I'm _weak_.”

Murphy snaps forward, finding his hand buried in Connor's hair before he can finish the thought. Heat rises in his belly, almost too fierce as Connor moans without closing the last distance between them. “Like this?” he croaks, unsure, frightened, possibly, but this isn't like the last time, Connor asks for him—he did it before. Connor asked for it, now and before. “I'll do it,” Murphy stresses, “I'll fucking do it if ye don't tell me. Yer a fucking- Yer an arsehole, that's what ye are.”

Connor nods, and his control takes its leave.

Murphy licks into him, whining as Connor opens up at once.

The kiss turns dirty within seconds, fucking obscene and taking his breath away as Connor pushes back and shoves his own tongue into his mouth without any finesse at all. Taking for himself, at fucking last, frying something in his mind for good. He has to wind his arm around Connor's back to pull him closer even though it's impossible, but he has to or he will die.

He doesn't make the rules.

Connor goes with the movement and rolls into him, hands roaming over his arms like he doesn't know where to put them. He needs to _breathe_ and Connor's beard scrapes over his cheeks in all the best ways and his nose gets fucking crushed between them, and a question forms in his mind.

He won't allow it.

Connor steps back. There isn't much space between them, but it feels huge nonetheless, outright illegal to not have Connor plastered against him, with his mouth red and shiny and—his arms raised above his head.

“Oh,” Murphy breathes, small.

Connor waits, wiggling his fingers impatiently.

The taste isn't unfamiliar anymore.

This is what Connor asked of him and it blows his mind as if he hears it for the first time. His brother wants him to take control, to literally take matters into his own hands by undressing him, taking control in every way—he doesn't know how. It's always been the other way around. He doesn't _know_ —

“Murph.”

Connor's t-shirt comes off and there's so much skin to touch, the possibilities are fucking endless. Connor's patience isn't; he crowds in with a small frown on his handsome face, and Murphy closes his teeth around his jaw and tries to live.

Everywhere, that's what his plan was. He needs to taste him everywhere, and this as good a place to start as anywhere.

Hands pull at him, but he needs to put his mouth on that soft patch of skin right below Connor's ear. It's more important, highly important, the most important—he had his fingers there, only the day before. Yesterday, he touched him there and now he's allowed to— “Tell me when,” Murphy says, just in case.

Connor's grip turns painful, shooting right into his cock without making any sense.

“Connor. Tell me to stop.”

“Don't.” Connor squeezes his arm, hard. “Don't fucking stop.”

_In the Name of the-_

Murphy stops, and he tries to stop thinking as well and skims his knuckles over Connor's belly instead, bold until his thumb catches on the trail of rough hair disappearing under Connor's jeans that makes Connor thrust against nothing at all, against air, setting him on fire because _he did this_. He did this and it's allowed.

Murphy whines, quiet, and fumbles with Connor's belt without looking up, bloody proud when he manages to open the buckle without slipping more than once, then Connor's jeans slide over his hips and Murphy's hands are on his skin, and he finds he can't stop until Connor is completely bare, jeans and briefs pooling around his feet and cock standing proudly.

He smells like blood.

“Connor,” Murphy says. It's enough to make this real, somehow, despite Connor not saying a word. He doesn't look pinched like he did before, not like when they kissed. He looks fucking gorgeous and he's waiting for him, hard and unashamed, all for him, only for him, so Murphy says it again, stating the fact, “Connor.” Then he nods and pulls him in until Connor's cock is trapped between their bodies.

They kiss until he gets shoved away.

Connor pulls at his shirt for all of two seconds, then he grunts and steps back to watch him strip—which Murphy does, without putting on a show because he doesn't know how to.

The second he's naked, he elbows Connor toward the bed.

Connor struggles.

They grapple, in a good way. Rough hands slide over his skin, lingering in places they never did during their usual roughhousing, pinching him so inappropriately he'll fucking come before they even made it to the bed. It's unacceptable, and it goes on for fucking reasons Murphy doesn't understand, unnerving and weirdly erotic at the same time until he traps Connor in a headlock and something brushes against his cock.

A wrist.

Murphy loosens his hold. They stare at each other—he stares at Connor while Connor stares at his cock. It twitches, flooding his cheeks with heat.

“Aye,” Connor says as if anyone asked a question, then he nods, climbs on the bed, and lies back with his ankles crossed and lips parted.

The possibilities are too numerous. There's too much to consider, to take into fucking account. They haven't talked about anything and Murphy wants to lie down on him and never get up.

He swallows, observing the flush spreading from Connor's face over his chest, the unruly hair and the stark lines of the cross on his arm.

The heavy arousal between his legs.

Murphy swallows again and says, “All right.” He climbs on the bed to lie down on Connor as planned, bloody awkward, and fails completely.

Before Connor can kick him again, he hurries to arrange his limbs and forces his brother to do the same until Connor spreads his legs to let him settle between them. The position gives them room to kiss again and him the space to let his heart beat out of his chest if necessary because Connor allows him this, being pinned down and kissed as he sees fit.

“Get a move on, will ye,” Connor rasps.

The angle is wrong. It's fucking awful, and Murphy groans in pity before he reaches for the spare pillow and shoves it under Connor's head—tries to. He needs to slap him until Connor gets with the program, grumbling and bumping his elbow against something on the bedside table.

It clatters, tipping over their rosaries.

It's the jar.

Murphy's hips drive down on their own volition, thoughts screaming in multiple directions at once, all of them unholy. He glances at Connor's face, thrusting weakly as he finds him looking at the balm as well. The bloody balm they keep carrying around everywhere.

It's haunting them.

He needs to use it now. The idea is in his brain, there's no fucking way around it—

Connor looks up, _smirking_ at him, and Murphy loses his mind. He grabs the balm, plants one last kiss on Connor's fucking smirking lips, and starts to mouth his way down. It's good because it's part of his plan, but it's also sensory overload at its finest; Connor's skin is sweaty under his fingers, salty under his lips, rough in some places and increasingly sensitive the lower he gets.

His smell gets more intense as well, intimately.

Murphy glances at Connor's cock. His mouth floods with saliva, uncalled-for and distracting, and this should be part of the plan as well. It's right under his chin, twitching up to meet him while Connor rubs his thigh against him. Murphy catches the limb and holds it still, taking his time to look at his bloody cock just because he can. He's seen it in every possible state, but never for him, of course. He's never been the reason for its—falling or standing.

Until now.

Until it curved so nicely against Connor's belly and let itself be inspected. It's a good cock, Murphy guesses. Looks fine. Smells pretty intense, now that he bows over it.

Before he makes a conscious decision, he moves down for an open-mouthed kiss, smearing precome over his lips and grinding his fucking mind to a halt, even more so as Connor bucks up and his cock slips over Murphy's teeth and presses against his gums.

“Aye, that's- Give it a taste, I-”

Murphy snaps his eyes up. Connor reaches down and fingers his jaw, eyes so dark there's barely any blue left. 'I don't know,' Murphy wants to say, but he also wants to taste and he has to, so he gives into the pressure and lets Connor open his mouth until it's uncomfortable, until he's forced to thrust against the mattress and avert his eyes, and still Connor doesn't push any further.

He leaves it to him, again. Of course he does.

Murphy licks over his bottom lip, then more upwards, pretending it's an almighty coincidence as Connor's cock is in the way of reaching his upper lip. It jumps and Connor's thumb holds him open by his chin, a bit painful and weirdly gentle, so Murphy whines again as the only solution he can come up with, ever, and guides him in.

A groan vibrates through him, maybe his own, possibly Connor's, at the same time as something drips on his tongue. It's bitter. He licks at it, alarmed, and takes him deeper until he can't anymore and this wasn't his plan anyway, he only wanted a taste, he got the taste, there's more still and he has the balm.

The balm.

Murphy moans, choking as Connor twitches in his mouth, and draws off with a wet suck he didn't plan at all. The taste burns in his veins, and if he doesn't look away now, he'll let himself be persuaded to suck him down. He fucking knows himself, and he has _plans_. Important plans involving the balm, not testing how much he could fit into his mouth or if it's really that hard to keep one's teeth out of the way and to swallow, in the end.

Plans.

Murphy glares, but his brother lies flat and stares at the ceiling, so he decides to move on. He grips Connor's thigh and bends it to the side, feeling the muscles bunch under his fingers which somehow compel him to plant a kiss there as well. His hands shake.

They won't ever finish here, not at this rate.

“I'm,” Murphy says.

Connor bends up his other leg, toes flexing, heels dragging over the mattress with a rough sound. He exposes himself with hardly more than a stutter of his breath, and Murphy freezes without reason.

This is it now, the biggest sin, and he's so ready to move forward it should frighten him—and it _doesn't_ , and he's frightened about not being frightened.

Then he stops and coats his fingers and gently probes at Connor so he doesn't have to reason tasting him there as well. There's still a line, but Connor doesn't need to know about that. He needs to open for him and he needs to give him more access, and Connor does both.

His morals wave one last goodbye as Connor lets his knees fall open and reaches for his balls to get them out of the way, then Murphy pushes in, only sparing a quick glance at Connor as he chokes on a sound and tenses around him like he's trying to push him out. It's strong and dry, very much so, and he needs more balm and it's still harder than he thought, pushing past the clenching and the resistance.

Murphy watches his finger, more alarmed than he's been in his bloody life as if he hasn't put his finger in anyone ever.

But it hasn't been like this. Never in this place, never with Connor, never being so nervous since he grew out of fucking puberty.

Never this important.

“Con,” he mumbles, glancing up for the briefest time. He wants to tell him that he loves him, but it's inappropriate with his hand doing what it's doing and with his taste in his mouth. It has to wait.

“I know.” Connor huffs. “Get in there all the way, I've seen that thing of yers and what yer doing there won't be enough.”

The mere thought of switching his finger for his cock has him whining, or maybe he's losing his mind. No one would know except for his brother who holds himself open and bears down and doesn't complain again, so Murphy starts stretching with purpose, vague thoughts of magazines and bar-talks circling in his head.

By the time he fits the third finger into him, Murphy ruts against the mattress in preparation for what's to come, and he's pretty sure he's breathing even heavier than Connor is, but the cock in front of him hasn't lost any of its hardness and that's all that matters. And it's enough for him to throw his last reservations overboard and scramble to his knees.

“Okay,” he says, slicking up his cock. “Now,” he says, looking at Connor's face for guidance. Sweat tickles on his back and face and arms, everywhere, making him itchy and restless while Connor lies boneless and offers no help apart from looking so ready for the taking it shouldn't be allowed.

It isn't allowed.

Murphy licks his lips, tasting him again. He hasn't touched his cock yet, with his hands. That's something he should do, possibly, if this is supposed to be foreplay.

There have to be rules for this, what are the fucking _rules_ —

Connor pulls him up by his neck, getting him to crawl over his body. Connor closes his knees around him and breathes in his face, and he hasn't said anything for a while.

They don't need rules.

Murphy lets himself be kissed as he reaches for Connor's cock, curling his fingers around it and swallowing Connor's moan. Just a few strokes, nothing excessive, nothing to turn them away from their plan, but it's good, somehow, good until Connor's groans get rougher and he kicks feebly on the mattress, and Murphy forces himself to stop before it'll be all over and moves on with his fucking plan instead.

It's more difficult than he thought, slipping into him. Nothing slips, it's a bloody struggle that takes his breath away and takes fucking time.

When he's inside, Connor stops breathing.

“Hurts?” Murphy croaks, shaking inside and out, voice raw and muscles straining with the effort to keep still. Rules— “Connor.” He's so tight he can hardly think let alone form intelligent thoughts. Any moment now his mind is going to leave for good, and if Connor isn't on board with it anymore, he must tell him right this second before it's too late, before he's losing it for real.

With a grunt, Connor wraps his legs around his waist and leans up in time to swallow Murphy's moan, to roll up his hips and get them moving, unashamed and sure like he's the one doing the fucking.

He is.

It's Connor's idea, it's what he wants and what he asked for. It's his hips moving for them both until Murphy plants his forearms on the bed, decides to stop being unsure, and starts to thrust, lost in the flaring hot surge of love burning through him.

With his thoughts turned off, it takes him a while to notice something feels off, and even when he does, he can't put his finger on it. His movements aren't too harsh and Connor urges him on, moaning every now and then. The phone doesn't ring, the doorbell is silent, he used enough slick—

The hardness trapped between their chest doesn't deserve its name anymore. It's fleeing, and Murphy stills.

“Does it hurt?” he asks, heart in his throat before Connor has time to open his mouth—which he doesn't do. He simply shakes his head. “What's going on?” Murphy pleads, and he doesn't want to know.

“I wish it would,” Connor whispers, stuck on a quiet sound between a moan and a sob. “I fucking wish, Murph.”

The statement hangs between them, furthering nothing.

Murphy stares, trying to read Connor's thoughts and coming up empty except for the signs he knew were there; Connor looks as aroused as before. His fucking heels still dig into his arse, for fuck's sake, and yet his cock shrivels.

His own doesn't, despite it all. Murphy stares on, looking deeper, unable to move or think until he sees the desperation in Connor's eyes. The desperation underneath everything he does, ruining their fucking lives.

He wishes it'd hurt, that's what he said.

He fucking wishes it would hurt instead of having to admit anything. Of course.

One word from Connor and he will stop. He will, he fucking vows it, but this—faith-induced soft cocks aren't on his agenda today. On any day, but especially not on this day.

“What can I do to get ye out of yer head?”

Connor clenches around him, taking his breath away without even looking at him. Instead, Connor focuses on his shoulder as if he's developed the habit of being shy. While being fucked. “I told ye,” he says. Murphy waits, and Connor swallows, palms running up and down his arms. “Take control, aye?”

“I did,” Murphy says, and to prove his point, he thrusts forward, knowing full well it's a lie.

This is still Connor's show. This is Connor's doing and his cock is soft and he wants to be persuaded.

If followed through, this would be the moment he'd sign up for actual property in Hell, preparing for an endless stay. Even if Connor asks him to, it has to come at a price.

“All right,” Murphy says. He reaches for Connor's hands and presses them down on the pillow. Connor rushes out a breath, head craned up for a kiss as if he doesn't know he isn't leading anything anymore. Evading him, Murphy bears down, head full of techniques and sins and seduction—and Smecker's toothy grin to keep himself from coming. “Like this?” he asks, snapping his hips down and spreading his own knees to lie on him fully, muscles straining and leg twinging.

The silent sight of Connor gets too much, so Murphy bows his head and mouths at Connor's jaw, tasting his sweat until he feels brave again. “Yer tight,” he whispers, face burning. “So fucking tight, Con.”

Connor tries to raise his hips, fails, and tries again with a groan so deep Murphy whines to let out some tension. “Keep talking,” Connor mutters even as he struggles against the hold, and Murphy loves him.

Smecker and his grin. It's not a good grin. He has many teeth.

“Ye liked that? What I did before, with my fingers?” His face is going to burst into flames, coordination shot to shit, and one of his hands slips, allowing Connor to wiggle free and grip his neck in a tight squeeze. “Bet I could've made ye come like that. Would ye wanna try?”

Connor moans, or maybe he groans.

“Tell me.”

Underneath him, Connor bucks up, leg slipping and scowl on his face. Murphy catches the limb and bends it to the side, pushing in as deep as he can. Smecker.

Between them, Connor's cock stirs back to life.

“Would ye? Connor?” he presses, “Have my fingers inside of ye until ye come? Until ye beg me to-”

“Shut up now.”

“I shan't,” Murphy states, but he does look away just to hold out a little while longer, to forget about the pressure building up inside of him that will soon have him explode like a bloody volcano. “I never thought about this,” he says, then he moans, alarmed again, and shakes his head with a twist of his hips to make Connor lose focus. “I never thought about ye like this. I didn't- I thought about other things and I didn't picture this once. I didn't know it was an option. I didn't think ye'd- I just-” Murphy shudders, throat tight. “I never thought about this and now I want to taste ye so badly, I-”

Connor kisses him. His hand is rough on his face, the other struggling under his own, and Murphy barely manages to wrench away, but he has to. There's so much he wants to say and he never fucking will if he can't get it out now, and suddenly he's fucking into Connor for real and something like a sob builds up in him, clawing at his heart and making _him_ lose focus instead of his brother.

It goes on until he can't any longer and Connor clawing at his shoulder forces him to look up again, to pick up where he left off because there's nothing else to do.

“I fucking- I love ye so much. In every way I know of.” It's not enough, too present, not enough future and promises. Too much fucking shame, both in him and in the situation, in his brother, in the way Connor strains up, cock rubbing between them with his face still so passive. “I want- I demand ye do this to me. This isn't one time- I want ye in me. I want that.”

Connor freezes, going painfully rigid from one second to the next.

One too many, he found the line, there's a line and Connor will snap out of it now and think about what they're doing—

“Shit,” Connor breathes, nails digging into his back. He comes with a soft, surprised sound, spilling between them without moving. It's warm and wet, emptying Murphy's mind.

He's allowed one moment to appreciate the clenching around his cock, to hear the sound he's known since they hit puberty with beds only two feet apart, but with Connor's face finally losing its mask, even Smecker's grin can't help him anymore. Murphy comes with a shudder, and it doesn't even feel good after all of this, way too fucking stressed until Connor shoves his tongue in his mouth and keeps him from breathing for long enough he feels lightheaded.

When Murphy comes to a final stop, dazed and overwhelmed and tired and so full of love he fears he'll burst any second, Connor draws back and cards his fingers through his hair, gently scraping over his scalp.

Their next kiss is slower, but it doesn't feel good either. It doesn't feel like anything. It's too much thought put into one kiss, expectations and sins and decisions, and Murphy lets it happen until Connor pulls away for good and he's free to roll off and pant at the ceiling.

Trying to come down, he lies flat, ear half-tuned into Connor doing the same. Their arms are touching, one line of contact from elbow to shoulder, and Murphy itches to scoot away and climb back on at the same time.

The sheets rustle.

Murphy stays on his back, staring without seeing, startling as something wipes over his belly.

It's his shirt, in Connor's hand, used as a provisional washcloth.

Connor cleans his come from Murphy's chest, then he goes as far as wiping down his groin, hands gentle and careful. It burns a bit, and Murphy stares, unable to move or form coherent thoughts beyond the love in him being joined by something else.

Fear maybe, or possibly dread.

Connor stays quiet until the lights are off and he climbs back into bed, neatly drawing the covers over them both. “All right?” he asks. It's quiet and deep, setting Murphy's insides on fire while canceling out all the warmth at the same time.

He doesn't manage more than a nod, not trusting his voice or ideas, but Connor doesn't need to hear him say it out loud. He never did.

Connor pulls him in and arranges their limbs, hands gentle again as he coaxes him to lie his head on his shoulder, tucked right under his chin. He's rendered motionless by Connor's hand on his nape, sticky and gross, and Murphy curls his fingers on Connor's chest because he's raw with everything and he needs to say something, to come up with something - anything - to keep that tear between them from widening.

There needs to be reassurance on his part and he doesn't remember how to form words.

Under his ear, Connor's heart beats steady and strong. His hand stays where it is, heavy on his neck, and that has to be enough, to be allowed this close after everything they've done. Connor wanted it, he wanted him, both inside of him and on top of him, both heated and now cooling down.

He wants it.

Right?

Murphy takes a deep breath, too exhausted to care about the stutter in it. The hair on Connor's chest tickles his nose, and each inhale floods him with Connor's smell. _Theirs_ \- mingling to form a sin while Connor's arm is tight around him like his brother thinks he'd disappear otherwise.

As if he fucking could.


	15. Chapter 15

Murphy dreams of God, of Hell, of Connor stuck in limbo and tainting his soul until it shrivels and dies just by loving him. When he wakes, it's with a prayer on his tongue and the old landline ringing shrilly—the reason he woke up. Beside him, Connor lies boneless and awake, arm thrown over his chest and clearly not about to move any time soon.

_Forgive me my sins, Lord, forgive me my sins: the sins of my youth, the sins of my age, the sins of my soul, the sins of my body, my idle sins..._

Reluctant, Murphy slips out of the bed and stumbles into the living room. He shivers and picks up the phone.

“Fucking hell, boy, I hoped you wouldn't pick up. Pack your stuff, you're supposed to be long gone by now.”

“What?”

“The police are sniffing around again since you two smarts heads can't do without your coins and rituals—shit, we've got to get rid of the car. Be ready in thirty or be ready to get locked up, all right? We're coming to get you.”

The line goes dead. Murphy stands, air cool against his skin and mind slow with sleep.

“Murph?”

Trudging back, Murphy hovers in the doorway, self-consciously angling his groin away even though nothing stirs there. It feels inappropriate nonetheless, and he wants to apologize for a myriad of things he can't name. Fucking his brother, maybe. Or continuing to fuck his brother when said brother grew limp with religious crises. Staying inside of him and talking dirty nonsense until his cock swelled again so he could forget to worry about it.

“Bad news?”

Murphy sniffs, blinking at the spots he apparently sucked into Connor's clavicle. “Police again,” he mumbles. “The others, they'll be here in thirty to pick us up.”

“Aye, fuck. We shouldn't have lingered.” Connor gets out of bed, and while he doesn't seem to share his concerns about propriety, Murphy does share his general concerns, so he follows him into the bathroom and closes the door as Connor gets into the shower.

“We didn't linger,” Murphy says, shoving his toothbrush into his mouth to justify being in the room. He stares at himself in the mirror and brushes until he can't stall any longer, then he washes his hands to wring out some more time and proceeds to stand around, eyes on the wall. His belly itches.

He scratches, scraping over dried come.

Connor steps out of the shower while it's still running and they switch places. Murphy washes and keeps track of Connor brushing his teeth, unwilling to have him leave the room as if he'd be _gone_ then. It's absurd, and it makes him grit his teeth and avert his eyes as he turns off the water.

A towel appears in front of him. Murphy slings it around his hips before he manages to lift his eyes again.

By the sink, Connor shaves, razor gliding in swift movements over his cheeks, forehead creased in concentration and body bloody starkers.

“We didn't linger,” Murphy says again. Connor shoots him a dirty look through the mirror, and Murphy steps up behind him, tongue heavy and sort of thick.

The towel is wet from them both, soaking him more than drying him off, and the cut on Connor's back is already healed. The only sign left of its existence is a rosy line, long and shallow on his skin. In time, it will fade as well, and the thought clogs up his throat. Murphy reaches out and follows the scar with his thumb, sliding through the wetness, through the goosebumps rising under his touch.

“None of that now,” Connor says quietly.

They stare at each other through the mirror, details hazy with the fog shrouding the glass. His thoughts didn't stray that way, but now they do, jerking him back into the fact of Connor standing naked before him. Of the muscles in Connor's back shifting when his thumb follows the line of his spine.

The tattoo doesn't look swollen. It stands stark against Connor's skin, and Murphy drops to his knees, jaw clenched against the sudden pain, and brushes his fingertips over the edges until Connor leans forward and braces himself against the sink.

The towel digs into his skin, thank fuck, anchoring him to reality where it's sorely needed. He's eye to eye with Connor's butt, now familiar in a way he hadn't thought possible, fingers moving on their own volition while his eyes lock onto the outline of Connor's balls, barely there and forcing his blood to pool low nonetheless.

Murphy slides his fingers over the swell of his arse, cheeks throbbing because Connor lets him, he lets it happen and juts back his hips and— “Does it hurt?” he croaks, wild, letting his thumb slip deeper, parting Connor's cheeks.

“Bit sore.”

Murphy whines, eyes down on what he's exposing, on where he was with his fingers and with his cock and where nothing should go, bloody fuck, of course it must hurt, it looks puffy and red and—

“Murph, it doesn't,” Connor says, strangled, and Murphy ruts forward, his injury forgotten until pain shoots up his leg. Connor drops to his elbows, shoving his arse right into his face, and Murphy pulls him apart with both of his hands.

The hair curls wetly there, darker than on his head, not as dark as his own. It really does look like it hurts, this close. His hands shake. Murphy leans forward to kiss the spot, swaying after him as Connor jerks away.

“The fuck yer doing?” Connor breathes. He doesn't flee any further, so Murphy says, “Making it better.”

Losing his mind, that's what he's doing. He leans in for another kiss, the skin hot against his lips, fucking misused. Not something he thought about before, but then again, he never thought about any of it before. He opens his mouth and tries for a soothing lick, making Connor hiss, bringing his own senses back and making everything awful.

“Sorry, sorry,” he hurries, looking away from where Connor clenches—he's talking against him. “Connor,” he says. It happens again, a twitch right in front of his eyes, and Murphy doesn't dare look up, and Connor stays where he is, holding his arse in his face.

_Now when ye sin so against the brethren, and wound their weak conscience, ye sin against Christ._

His cock pulses between his legs, heavy and inappropriate. Murphy swallows, then he licks over him again, crossing the line he thought important just a few hours ago. His mind turns dark with ideas and sins and Connor possibly letting him fuck him again, and then with Hell and Connor not committing to fucking anything.

He gets to his feet and leaves the bathroom.

A few minutes help him to get his shit together, and by the time Connor follows him out in all of his naked glory, he's already dressed and doesn't need to worry about his cock while his brother's is still heavy between his own legs despite the minutes spent alone.

“Did ye speak with Greenly?” Connor asks as he starts to dress.

Murphy blinks, hand pausing on the bag he's packing. “Dolly.” Connor's mouth is a flat line. “Why?”

“Curious that ye forget what Greenly knows,” Connor mutters before he buttons up and collects his rosary. “I'd say it must be genetic, but I'm not in the habit of insulting myself.”

Murphy groans. “It didn't look like Eunice knew about the bed, no?” He marches - limps - to the bed and shakes out the sheets, and then he's momentarily distracted by terror.

Who cleans these houses after they leave? Who the fuck makes it look like they didn't have sex in this bed? Do these priests come back into their sullied homes and are left to clean up their messes?

“Connor,” he says, ready to have a nervous breakdown, but Connor doesn't even look or listen; he keeps complaining about his stupidity at a pace that has him worried for his tongue. “Ye know what that means?” Murphy hollers, grabbing his bag. “Means yer paranoid, that's what.”

“It means she didn't say anything about it, not that she doesn't know.” Connor sounds plain angry, but the worry underneath his many layers is obvious. It's so easy for him to flip a switch, to go from intimacy to fretting over things they're unable to control anyway. About things that might not be as important as he thinks they are.

Murphy looks away so he doesn't grab Connor's shoulder or feel overcome by some equally foolish gesture to reassure him. Connor won't listen, and he won't be able to put into words how he thinks that even if Eunice knew, it wouldn't be the end of the world, simply the end of their vocation.

It's not what they _are_ , just what they do.

For him, at least.

A series of fast knocks rattles the door. The second Connor opens it, Dolly demands their car keys, then he's off again and Greenly steps inside.

“I sure hope you're ready,” he says, looking at Connor's bare feet. “We had to get going ten minutes ago.”

*

With their bags in the trunk of Greenly's car and Dolly being who knows where, Greenly drives them off, frantically turning his head at each intersection and never going past the speed limit until they reach more open roads. The car is quiet, tension thick in the air, and Murphy keeps an eye on Connor, just in case.

Sharp and fucking sudden, Connor sits up. “Where're we going?”

Greenly twitches, swaying the car. “Jesus,” he hisses, craning his head to look at them. “We need to pick up Dolly, got to circle back to get him.”

Already tired of the procedure, Murphy leans back in his seat and lets his thoughts wander. The technicalities of their job never concerned him - where the cars come from, where they go, where Connor and he will end up when they get directions to the safe houses.

Where they will end up today, be that in another county, in another state—he never cared past Rocco and the basement. It's not in their hands anymore, hasn't been since the others offered their help, and under the leadership of Smecker - Eunice, if they're honest - it went well ever since. No need to poke at something that works just fine.

Judging from Connor's clenched jaw, his brother has other ideas. Murphy stretches his leg until it comes to rest beside Connor's, somewhat obvious.

“Hurts?” Connor glances at his leg, then at Greenly, and lowers his voice. “Ye need to remember to use the fucking balm, Murph. Ye know the scar won't smooth-”

“It doesn't,” Murphy cuts in, eyes fixed on his hands. The fucking _balm_. Which they used. And his fingers—bloody fuck.

“Well, then.”

They do circle back, and with Greenly refusing to turn up the radio, the silence grows uncomfortable until they stop in a side street and Dolly comes jogging over. He sinks into the passenger seat and holds up his thumb, and Greenly pulls out into traffic again.

“It's good to see you,” Dolly says, turning to nod at them both. “Sorry about earlier. Time was running short.”

“We got ye into the trouble in the first place, no need to apologize.” Murphy tries for a smile, Connor's stare drilling a hole in his face.

Dolly waves him off. “Don't worry about it.”

Somehow, with another person in the car, the tension seems more bearable even though it's pretty crowded, and while the hours don't quite fly by, he isn't ready to jump out onto the street either.

When they stop for breakfast, Dolly stammers around until he makes it clear he's to collect their orders, and for the first time in a long while, Murphy remembers the uncertainty of being a fugitive. They've been too alone, sheltered, secluded. Being out here in the open with people that aren't his brother—it doesn't seem right. Murphy cranes his head to catch Connor's eyes, failing, unable to make sense of the tight lines on his face.

“Okay?” he asks.

“Grand.”

Dolly comes back and fills the car with the smell of coffee, doughnuts, and bagels.

They eat on the road and keep driving in a straight line until Murphy finishes his umpteenth smoke. He stretches, trying to pop his back, and decidedly doesn't look at Connor who seems frozen ever since he sat his fucking arse in the car.

“So.” Dolly turns in his seat, cocking his head at Connor. “What's the matter? Something we can help?”

Connor frowns.

“You got out on the good side. In a few hours, we're out of the state. What's troubling you?”

“I'm not troubled,” Connor says, troubled.

Murphy catches Greenly's eyes in the rearview mirror.

“Well, you do look like you're in need of a good night's sleep,” Dolly says with a wink. “Or at least a soft bed to spend the night in.”

There's a beat of silence that makes his heart sink because Connor is—calm. Very much so, he even smiles, raising the hair on his arms. “What do ye mean by that?”

Dolly rolls his eyes. “That you look tired, boy. That's all.”

Connor looks out of the window, motionless except for his fingers drumming a rhythm on his thigh. When he turns forward again, he holds his head high. “I don't think that's what ye meant,” he states.

Murphy stares at his profile, watching in something that might be awe. This is an accident waiting to happen. There's nothing in his head, and Connor will explode.

“Well, you fucking caught me,” Dolly says. “I thought I'd spare you the rest since you don't seem to be in the mood for it.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Murphy catches Greenly looking. Again.

“What're ye saying?” Connor asks politely, then he turns to him. “What's he saying, Murph?”

Murphy reaches out and splays his fingers on Connor's chest as if that simple touch could actually hold him back, excitement speeding up his heart, bloody inappropriate. “He's-”

“Saying that where we're gonna take you,” Greenly cuts in, “you should be able to find enough eager ladies to help against your damn frown. You're gonna get wrinkles from that, trust me.”

“And where _are_ ye taking us?” Murphy asks. Under his palm, Connor's heart beats wildly, fueling his own nervous energy, the prospect of an impending fight making him giddy instead of annoyed.

“Across the state line,” Dolly says. “We figured you've done enough here, and since the police are on your tail now, we might as well broaden our horizons, right?”

“Right.”

Without his input, Murphy's thumb rubs over Connor's chest, tiny circles that could be meant as soothing but are actually beyond his control. The air tastes thick and even though it's been countless hours, smokes, and food, for a short moment, he has Connor's taste in his mouth again, on his lips. On his tongue, where he licked him.

He smooths out Connor's shirt and withdraws his hand.

The sun rises fully, glares, and starts to set again, and his eyes droop with boredom and the stress of it all. Trying to make himself comfortable, Murphy ends up with his knees digging into the seat in front of him and his arm pressed against the door at an awkward angle. Beside him, Connor, the endless knob, snorts at his attempts.

Murphy gives him the finger.

Connor looks at it.

Time stretches, maybe, or maybe it doesn't, because Connor is on the move again; he scoots right up to him, puts his feet on the seat, and curls up on his side like a bloody child. His head comes to rest on Murphy's thigh, somewhat heavy, and something sits in Murphy's throat.

It's a day for that.

The Holy Mother is hidden by the collar of Connor's shirt, raising an itch in his fingers to peel back the shirt and trace the image with his fingers. To look further, hook his thumb under the hem and pull it down until he can see the bruises he sucked into his skin.

Murphy lights a smoke and puts his free hand on Connor's side, fingers curling as Connor lets out a sound so small it nearly gets swallowed by the engine. It's grounding. Small as it was, it was for _him_ , and something in his chest settles at the thought.

*

Murphy blinks his eyes open to a quiet conversation between Dolly and Greenly. They're talking about a case, nothing that concerns him when the pressing matter of Connor's bloody fucking head on his thigh becomes apparent. The ability of said thigh to feel took its hat and left him with an additional gross taste in his mouth and a bloody empty stomach.

Groaning, Murphy shifts to get the blood flowing again, but Connor clamps down on what he probably thinks is his struggling pillow, so Murphy capitulates and gives into another urge instead. He rolls down the window, catching Dolly's eyes in the mirror as he lights a smoke.

It's night by now. They left the middle of nowhere, apparently, but the next cluster of lights looks far away enough to indicate they're going to be on the road for a while still. To reach wherever the fuck they're going.

Murphy smokes, willing the fog in his mind to disappear, idly flexing his fingers against the faint outline of Connor's ribs. The smoke clouds the car and burns in his eyes, and it's dark and he's not fully awake, but none of it is enough to hide the fact that Greenly is vibrating in his seat, and Murphy is alarmingly sure he doesn't want to know what it's about.

“About earlier,” Greenly says from the passenger seat. “I don't want to get on the wrong foot with you two.”

“Then why do ye?” Murphy asks before he can think about it, though it's a fucking legitimate question even if Dolly was the one asking the questions, not Greenly. Still—still.

Greenly pulls a face. “Because that brother of yours looks tense as hell and I don't want it to affect our work.”

Under his fingers, Connor stirs. Murphy flicks his smoke out of the window, a faint throbbing behind his eyes. “We didn't fail a job.”

“Yet.” Greenly shrugs. “All I'm saying is that he should go and relieve some of his stress.”

Murphy fends off a sneer. “Yer obsessing over this for reasons I'm not sure I want to know about,” he says, trying for quiet, staring at Greenly and daring him to spell it out, to mention the bed and get it fucking over with.

“I'm trying to look out for you here.”

“You sound like a creep,” Dolly chimes in.

Greenly rolls his eyes. “Boys their age should have fun, right? If you can remember that far back.”

“Shut up.”

“Well, I'm telling you, that's what they should do - unwind a bit. Or Connor should, at least.”

Murphy smiles. “He should?”

Turning in his seat, Greenly leans back against the glove compartment, apparently set on dying in case of an accident, and glances at Dolly. “That's not your area of expertise, is it?” he asks, looking back at him. “I've never seen you look at a girl like that.”

“The fuck-”

Connor snaps straight, arms swinging wildly as he presses forward against Greenly's seat. “I fucking told ye, Murph!”

“Because of your belief,” Greenly rushes out. “You're very devout-”

Connor grabs him by the lapels.

“Everyone calm the fuck down!” Dolly hollers.

Connor forces Greenly back and locks his arm around his neck.

The car sways and stops, screeching. Murphy sits dumbly.

“I'll calm down when this one clears up on what the fuck he's insinuating,” Connor says. A noble thought, but he keeps the man in a choke-hold without giving him enough air to fucking talk, and Murphy stays where he is, satisfied and aware he should pray over that.

“Don't bother,” he says instead. “He won't say shit. He's probably pissing his pants already.”

“Christ, boys.” Dolly raises his hands, soothing and raising his hackles. “Let's cool down, all right? Take it easy, Connor.”

“Don't fucking tell him to take it easy when Greenly's the one provoking us!” Murphy snaps. “If he kept his fucking mouth shut-”

“I didn't say a thing,” Greenly wheezes. “I didn't-”

Before he makes a conscious decision, Murphy shoves his body between the seats and his face right into Greenly's. “Don't ye finish that thought.”

“Someone,” Dolly hollers, “tell me what the fuck's going on!”

A hand grips his shoulder. His eyes lock with Connor's on the other side of the headrest. Dolly's shout rings in his ears, clearing away the red haze and raising something like shame in him. If he weren't fucking _right_ about this.

“Anyone?” Dolly demands.

Murphy swallows and reaches for Connor to pull them back to their seats. “Nothing's going on,” he says as Connor settles next to him, holding Dolly's gaze until the man averts his eyes and focuses on Greenly.

“You okay?” he asks.

Murphy looks away, turning to Connor, fingers still wrapped around his wrist. They _were_ right. Connor was. Connor knew, he always knows.

The urge to look him over like he does after a fight rises to unbearable limits, so Murphy does. He finds nothing, of course, not a single scrape, only a few hairs out of place and Connor's hand shoved behind his back. Where he keeps his gun.

The car starts up again and Murphy pretends he didn't see.

“Everything good now?” Dolly asks.

Murphy nods, directing it at the window, watching the lights in the distance. His fingers stay curled around Connor's wrist, bony and warm, and as the cool breeze from the open window clears the last of the fight-fog from his mind, he tries to relax again. Beside him, Connor is one line of tension, a living uneasiness that stays pressed against him from knee to shoulder, vibrating in his seat as the minutes tick by and no one tries to start a conversation.

They sit in silence until the car pulls up to a nondescript two-story building—in an actual street for once, no parochial house tucked away behind a church.

Dolly gets out of the car and opens the trunk, and they follow him to collect their bags. “Listen,” Dolly says, glancing at where Greenly stayed in the car. “I don't know what happened and I'm not sure I want to know, but you have to promise me something.” He sounds unsure, and Murphy feels a pang of regret.

“What is it?”

“That you take it easy for a while.”

Murphy shrugs, embarrassed after all. “I'm sorry we dragged ye into this.”

“Thanks for the ride,” Connor says, smoke dangling from his lips and face turned toward the front door like none of this concerns him in the slightest.

Dolly ignores him and climbs back into the car. “Settle in for now, we'll-” He sighs. “I'll give you a call.”

Murphy nods and watches until the car disappears around a corner, the air cool against his face and his body numb with something he can't place yet. Being out of control, maybe.

The keys jingle, impatient.

He follows Connor inside and takes a quick look around. Meant for a family, the house has two small bedrooms besides the master bedroom. He wonders whether this is Greenly's idea of a joke or whether he's paranoid now, but Connor throws himself on the bed like he's already making himself at home, so he keeps his mouth shut about it.

It gives him a headache, though.

In the kitchen, he rummages around and comes up empty save for a few apples. When Connor wanders in, they eat in silence, take turns in the bathroom, and go to bed like a couple, each on their own side of the bed.

They fall asleep without touching.

*

_Ye weren't supposed to know._

Only the words, no dream attached to them. There's no need for the dream anyway; the words sunk into his soul like a bad habit, he'll never need the actual dream again to see the image in his mind.

Murphy opens his eyes, belly aching at the sight of the empty space beside him. He reaches out, palming the cool cotton. No warmth lingers, as expected, but it's painful nonetheless, so Murphy forces himself up with a sigh and limps into the bathroom. The pain is stronger in the mornings, even after all these months.

Maybe it always will be.

He takes his time under the shower, warming up the muscle and poking through their bags until he finds the balm. This time, he forces down each and every memory connected to it and rubs the fluid over his scar, then he changes and goes out to find Connor.

He finds him in the office.

“Morning.” He steps up behind him and cranes his head to look at the books in front of them. “What're ye looking at?”

“'m not in the mood,” Connor says, low and tired before he makes to leave.

“What?” Murphy gawks, heart picking up speed as Connor stops in the doorway. “In the mood for what?”

“Ye know.”

“Connor.” Murphy grits his teeth to distract himself from hurting and waits until his brother turns again. “Just cause-”

“Murph, I- I haven't even had breakfast yet.”

“Shut yer fucking gob,” Murphy stresses. “Being in yer general vicinity doesn't mean I want to bloody fuck ye all the time!”

Connor jerks back, proving this is exactly what bothered him.

They stare at each other until his chest constricts so badly he wants to flee.

“Whatever,” Murphy says when it becomes clear Connor won't answer or deny, when it's fucking clear he won't grace him with any reaction at all. Murphy stalks out, taking care to not brush against him as Connor stays rooted to the spot, and aims for the kitchen.

The excuse of a conversation hangs over them like a dark cloud, poisoning every last corner of the house until it gets to a point where Connor starts up small talk, switching between meaningless topics as if that would help with anything. Murphy wants to try, he does, but the thought of Connor once again keeping him away at arm's length ruins anything that could resemble a good mood before it can grow roots.

Throughout their lives, he thought he knew what it felt like to be loved by Connor. Now, with their bond even more intensified, his throat closes up with it all. There's no fiber in his being that doubts Connor's love for him and Lord knows he tried everything he could think of; giving Connor space, being in his space all the time, taking a step back, doing what his brother asks him to do.

He's done it all and the outcome stayed the same, always the fucking same result without ever changing.

Deep down, he knows it's hypocritical, but Murphy vows again, to himself and in front of the Lord as well, when he's in church, leaving the house with Connor by his side and parting ways immediately; Connor off for a jog, he off to church. Murphy vows to be strong even when Connor begs again.

Because he fucking will. He did it before, he'll do it again. No matter which step they take next, it has to be Connor's idea. He won't force anything, not anymore, and he won't give in when Connor thinks himself too weak again.

With newfound resolve, Murphy returns to the house and starts on dinner, and they eat in peace until Connor clears his throat. Then again and again until he's doing it once a minute and nothing else comes.

“Spill already,” Murphy says eventually, fork on his plate and eyes narrowed.

“I feel weak.”

Murphy stands, stacking their plates with more force than necessary and willing Connor to go the fuck away even as his thoughts snap back on reflex, presenting a perfectly preserved memory of Connor holding his arms over his head and waiting to be undressed.

“Murph?”

No, he wants to say. It's enough. We've done enough.

Instead, he says, “I heard ye.” He loads the dishwasher, pretending he can't feel the growing emptiness inside of him. When he's done and he can't find anything else to occupy himself with, Murphy turns around again, head full of fucking cotton. “What're ye feeling weak about this time?”

“Everything,” Connor says at once. His eyes are fixed on the table. He looks downright pathetic, and Murphy's heart gives an equally pathetic lurch.

He sinks down on his chair, lighting smokes for them both. “Be more specific.”

“Nah,” Connor says, taking the offered smoke. “Just wanted ye to know, is all.”

“But I don't,” Murphy says, smiling without planning to even when Connor stays silent and radiates—dread, maybe. It comes off him in waves, and it can't go on like this.

He won't make it. They won't.

They're going to break apart over this, and maybe, just maybe, at the end of the day, it's not worth the trouble after all.

Murphy blows out smoke, watching it curl toward the ceiling. This is it now, but he doesn't dare say it out loud. Not like this, not while looking at Connor's face, at his loving eyes and the shadows underneath them. At his pale face, the one from his dreams come to haunt him in the living world as well.

What his brother does best, always and forever, is trying to solve a problem he thinks _he_ has. It has to be Connor's idea to save him, nothing else will work.

Murphy licks his lips and gets struck by fucking lightning when the sun hits Connor's profile through the open window and his hair begins to actually glow. “I don't know what to do anymore,” he says, raw and cringing. “I should help but I don't know how to.”

“No one's accusing ye of not trying.” Connor smiles and it doesn't reach his eyes. “There's something, if ye want to know. But I'd only say it, I wouldn't want to discuss it.”

His fingers tap a rhythm against his thigh, out of view. His knuckles bump against the underside of the table, overly loud in his ears, and Murphy nods so he doesn't start to pace or cry or some other shite.

“When we—the other night,” Connor says, frowning. “It shouldn't have felt this good.”

Murphy sits, tapping his fingers. The ridiculous hair on Connor's upper lip catches his attention as if Connor hasn't had that look ever since he started to grow a beard in the first place. He wants to drag his thumb over it, to feel it pressed against his lips again.

He stubs out his smoke, proud when his hand only shakes a bit. “Okay,” he says.

It's not going to happen again. They had their chance and he thought they did well, as good as expected, and his love for Connor grew even bigger with it, not only when lust clouds his mind, but this—this is it. And it gives the phrase 'weak' another meaning as well.

“Did we do it like that because it meant ye weren't the one doing anything? Is that why ye let me fuck ye?” Murphy stares, acutely afraid of the answer even as Connor shakes his head. “Ye didn't- Connor, ye didn't want to be the one. That's what ye said.”

“Murph, no,” Connor croaks. “That's not it at all, don't be like that.”

“But I fucking am!” Murphy cries. “Don't make it sound like I'm crazy to question yer fucking motives!”

“I'm sorry. I am.”

Nothing else comes. This is it. He'll have to get over it while constantly being near his brother, living with him, eating with him, breathing in the same space.

Murphy nods.

Getting over it while Connor digs bullets out of his flesh and nurses him back to health, while he uses choke-holds on people offending him and while he loves him back.

_I offer Thee my sleep and all the moments of this night, and I pray Thee to preserve me from sin. Therefore, I place myself in Thy most sacred side, and under the mantle of our Blessed Lady, my Mother._

When Murphy feels steady enough to stand - firmly steering his thoughts away from Connor thinking the sex was _too good_ even when he had a religious crisis in the middle of it - Murphy leaves, roaming the house without a goal and without Connor trying to interfere.

It won't be enough to get over their physical intimacy. Lust is only one factor - he has to stop loving Connor altogether. Maybe this is what 'getting over it' means; setting boundaries on love as a whole.

Murphy prays over it in uncertain terms and is none the wiser afterward, then he listens with half an ear to Connor's evening prayer. Tired from nothing at all, he gets ready for bed and glances over as Connor's voice stops.

“Do ye want to pray?” Connor asks, still on his knees.

“Already did.”

“Do ye want to pray with me?”

Murphy frowns. “Depends on what we're praying for,” he says, and Connor averts his eyes. “Then no, I don't want to,” he mutters, rubbing over his face so he doesn't have to see Connor for just a moment. The fucker can be glad he's already stupidly in love with him.

But he isn't. That's why he's praying, after all.

With a sigh, Murphy lies back and kicks at the bunched up covers, very definitely ignoring Connor as his brother finishes up, rises from his knees, and pulls his shirt over his head—while looking at him. Jeans and rosary follow, leaving Connor in his briefs, and Murphy's mind grows weak as his cock grows hard, forcing a sigh of despair out of him.

Connor gets in bed and turns off the light.

Through the dark, he feels Connor watching him.

It's what he prepared for; Connor waiting for him, wanting to be touched, maybe in a similar state as him, under that flimsy fabric.

Murphy lies motionless, pulse hammering and palms sweaty, and nothing happens. Connor doesn't proposition him, he doesn't say anything about anything. He never does, about this topic.

It's for the best. His prayers helped.

Something brushes against his palm—Connor's knuckles, under the covers.

Murphy holds his breath, heart picking up speed from this stupid little gesture, then some more as Connor's hand covers his fully. He entwines their fingers, palm rough against the back of Murphy's hand, and rolls onto his side.

A small sigh puffs against his cheek as Connor guides him, pressing their hands against his chest, skin against skin.


	16. Chapter 16

“Remember when ye said- That discussion about rewards,” Connor says with his eyes on the leftovers of his breakfast. “When ye said I was yer reward, ye were convinced about it. It wasn't just a theory, no?”

Throat dry despite his yogurt, Murphy lowers his spoon and shoves the plastic cup aside. “I guess.”

“Ye sounded sure enough.”

Murphy sighs and fumbles for a smoke, torn between apologizing and simply walking away. In the end, he chooses resignation. “I shouldn't have said that,” he says in a tone he hopes is dull enough Connor might drop it.

“Ye should have. If that's what ye believe.” Connor shrugs, sort of fidgety on this otherwise fine morning, apparently set on ruining his mood forever.

“What do ye _want_?”

“To know whether ye do believe in it, and if so, how ye know.”

“It's what I thought I was entitled to, all right,” Murphy mutters. “But that's not how the Lord works now, is it?”

“Oh, lay the fuck off. I'm trying to have a serious conversation here, I don't need ye to wallow in self-pity.”

“I was trying to apologize, ye arsehole.” Murphy huffs, then he rolls his eyes at Connor's sad face. “The fuck yer even asking? Ye want to discuss this now, after we decided-”

“We didn't,” Connor cuts in. “We didn't decide.”

But they did. Connor fucking knows they did, and still he rubs salt into the wound instead of letting it fucking be and trying to heal.

Murphy looks away. “Do ye believe we get to have something for ourselves, a reward, however that might look?”

“Of course I believed that,” Connor says. “That's why I agreed to—ye know. That's why we...”

His bloody yogurt tries to work its way back up his throat simply from hearing the past tense. This is bordering on too much again, right at the start of the fucking day. Murphy looks at his coffee, cheeks hot with everything at once. “Yer resolve didn't hold on for very long, did it?”

“No need to be rude about it,” Connor mutters, but he directs his glare at the ashtray between them while Murphy blows smoke toward the ceiling, waiting for him to go on, to leave, to explode. Anything that isn't sitting in this awful silence, anything that can make the image of Connor beneath him disappear.

Connor sighs. “I lost track of my thoughts for a while there, is all. I told ye I needed ye to be the one, no? I couldn't do it even when I was so weak already, but that doesn't mean I didn't want to. Just that I wanted to try so badly.” Connor glances up, voice quiet like he's making a confession. “And then it felt too good. It shouldn't be like that between—between brothers. I was almost strong enough, but I didn't _want_ to stop.”

This is what everything boils down to. Murphy stares, empty. “Ye think yer weak for loving me,” he says, slow. “Which means ye think yer strong for losing yer fucking erection because yer thoughts went back on the right track.”

There's nothing.

Murphy stands and makes for the door.

“Murph.”

“I won't do this again,” Murphy says, rounding the table and aiming for the living room instead.

Before he's through the door, Connor catches up to him. “Don't ye want to see this through?”

Murphy whips around. “That's not what I want at all!” he cries, deflating by the second, by the panicked expression on Connor's face. “I don't want to see it through, I want to love ye like I do without being fucking punished by ye for it! If that's not possible, I'd rather forget it all.”

The last part is a lie, of course. He turns away to hide it just as Connor snatches his wrist.

“Now wait.”

He shakes his arm loose and takes a step back, tired and worn and fucking old. “I'm done taking scraps from ye,” he presses out. “If ye can't do it right, I don't want to hear about it anymore.” The floorboards are cold beneath his feet, leading a shiver up his spine until Connor's warmth comes closer, crowding into his space. His breath ghosts over his face, smoke, coffee and jam all at once. “Why don't ye ever listen?” Murphy whines, embarrassed to the core and overcome by it with no solution in sight.

“I do,” Connor says. “I do, but ye have to be patient with me. Aye, Murph?”

If he lifted his arms, he'd be able to feel Connor, touch his warmth and taste his strength beneath his clothes, and it wouldn't do more than break his heart even further.

Connor shifts closer and cradles his head, bowing it forward until their foreheads lean together. “Ye know I'm not hurting ye on purpose. I never would,” he says, quiet enough Murphy has to strain his ears to hear him. They share air, and Murphy blinks away the wetness in his eyes from the gentle hands on his face, from Connor's eyes so near his vision swims.

“Hurts nonetheless,” he whispers.

They sway, gently, as Connor wipes his thumbs over his cheeks. “Do ye want to stop?” he asks, quiet between them, intimate and broken.

Yes.

No, but his strength is running low and he doesn't have answers anymore. He told Connor. It's not his decision to make, they won't ever be happy like this, not if it isn't Connor's own decision.

Murphy swallows, blinking rapidly to make the shame disappear. All of this could be resolved by a light press of lips, a single kiss that wouldn't require moving more than a few inches. It wouldn't take more, and all would be well. “I won't tell ye what to do,” he says at length, an answer that isn't one but still harmless enough not to ruin anything further. “It's yer call. Ye have to decide.”

Connor nods, rubbing against his forehead. When he steps back, it's with a soft sigh that leaves Murphy breathless with longing.

At this point, he wants nothing more than to have Connor close, everything else can come after. He wants to hold him, to feel the steady beat of his heart, to take his hand or simply to sit next to him on the couch, opposite of him during dinner, knees bumping and no talks.

It shouldn't be this hard. It never fucking was.

Connor leaves him with a strange look of determination on his face, and Murphy doesn't ask.

*

“Murph?” Connor peeks around the corner, mouth tight. “Dolly's on the phone. He wants to speak with us.”

Murphy pushes himself up from the ground, muscles shaking after too many squats and sweat clinging to his face. He hobbles over. “What's he want?” he asks, reaching for the phone. Connor shakes his head. “Dolly?” he asks into the speaker.

“Ah, good,” Dolly says in a voice that doesn't sound like he thinks anything is good, per se. “You got a moment? I know Connor is busy, but I meant to talk to one of you.”

Murphy grunts, flipping off his brother who lurks at his side while pretending he doesn't lurk at his side. “About what?”

“Updates, such things,” Dolly says. “We haven't been able to find anything for you to do yet.”

“Okay.” There's a pause, and Murphy frowns, which makes Connor frown back at him. “Not okay?” he asks, wiping his wrist over his forehead.

“I just think maybe this isn't a bad thing after all,” Dolly says, slow. “The last weeks have been stressful, right?”

Connor paces, frowning with his whole face without being able to listen to the conversation. Murphy tightens his hold on the phone. “What're ye saying?”

“That I think you need a vacation,” Dolly says. “Something to take your mind off things. What I've seen—it wasn't healthy.” He sighs. “You need a break.”

“Okay,” Murphy says again, avoiding Connor's eyes by blinking at the wall. “What do ye suggest?”

“Oh, uhm. I'm not saying you should quit, obviously. There's a lot to do and we do need you. I'd suggest you take a few days to get out of that headspace you seem to be stuck in and then we go from there.”

Murphy glares ahead until Connor comes into his line of sight looking like murder. “I see,” Murphy states. “Not that ye seem to care or it's any of yer business, but we're actually doing fine, ye know? Since ye didn't ask.”

“What's he saying?”

“We can work,” Murphy goes on. “We've worked before we joined up with ye. Ye remember that, no?”

“Listen,” Dolly says, voice down to a stressful muttering, “I've got no fucking clue what went on between Greenly and you and frankly, I don't care, but I talked to Eunice and she thinks you should take it easy for a while too. Now listen-”

“Ye talked to her?”

“Jesus, Murphy. I know we're only helping you, you're the ones carrying the jobs out, but all I'm asking is that you don't do anything rash. All of us, Greenly included, want the best for you and if you go on your own, we can't help. The only thing we're asking is that you take it slow for a while.”

Connor nudges him, nodding at the phone. “Give it here.”

Murphy waves him off and turns around as Connor grabs for it. “But we will hear from ye.”

Dolly exhales with force, making him wince. “Of course you will. As soon as we find a lead, I'll give you a call, I promise.” The smile is audible in his voice, and Murphy finds himself smiling back despite everything, rather dumb, leading Connor to eye him with suspicion. “I expect the same from you, at least a short call before you start on something new.”

“Deal,” Murphy says, then he hangs up in case Dolly insists on a teary goodbye and relays the conversation in quick words.

Connor doesn't look pleased. “Well,” he says, lips pursed. “That was to be expected.”

Murphy shrugs, unpleasantly sweaty by now. “Could've been worse. A few days off don't sound too bad.”

His shirt sticks to his back, cold and disgusting while Connor simply looks at him until his lips twitch up into half-smile. He shrugs as well and leaves to wherever he came from in the first place, and Murphy watches him, his back, how his muscles shift with each step under the decidedly too small shirt.

Resolve, he reminds himself.

In bed, later, he reminds himself again as the familiar sound of Connor's palm sliding over cotton comes sooner than expected. They interlace their fingers; the only point of contact between them, and it feels more significant than it should.

Connor clears his throat, breathing against his cheek. “If there's such a thing as a reward,” he whispers, “yer mine as well.”

*

A weight presses down on him, warm and sticky. It curls and scratches its nails through the sparse hair on his chest until Murphy sniffs and turns his head in Connor's direction, prepared to stay like this forever.

“Mornin',” Connor says, curling his fingers again.

At the first signs of his body reacting to the bloody touch, Murphy sighs and opens his eyes fully, staring at Connor staring at his own hand and regretting it the second Connor glances up and his expression changes to something that's been fucking done and over with dozens of times.

“Quit it.”

The fingers wander, spreading out over his navel, skin sticking to skin.

“Connor,” he says, getting fucking ignored. Murphy huffs, moving the hand on him with the force until he's brave enough to look at Connor's eyes. They're dark, focused on the barely-there tent of his condition without scooting back an inch.

Which means he made his decision.

He wouldn't do this otherwise, would he?

The decision is made and Connor doesn't move.

“What's stopping ye now?” Murphy croaks, earning a squeeze before the hand slides lower, fingertips grazing the elastic of his boxers. “It's not fair if ye don't tell me.” The hand stills, raising goosebumps everywhere, and Murphy wiggles his own under the covers to palm himself, out of sight. Slow and steady, nothing rash. “This doesn't make ye weak,” he tries, desperate and ashamed about it, but not enough to stop just yet. “It doesn't mean that at all. It just doesn't. Yer wrong, Con.” He holds his breath, and Connor lies motionless. “I'll take the punishment. I'll take it. I just want ye to- Ye have to tell me.”

Nothing.

Murphy waits, aching.

Connor looks up, and the decision isn't made.

It is, but Connor can't live with the consequences of not being able to have this as well. Both is what he wants and he can't fucking have it.

Murphy shoves his boxers over his hips, covered by the blanket and still feeling exposed as he wraps his fingers around himself. Partly to relieve the tension, mostly to make Connor pay—but not to change his mind. He tried that route, it's no good. “Get out,” he says, starting to pump.

“Wait now.”

Fire runs through his veins, hot and shameful, burning in his cock and behind his eyes, and he can't fucking help it, there are only a few inches between Connor's hand and his cock and if he rolled his hips in just the right way, Connor would feel it and know and do something about it and— “Ye do it now or ye get out.”

Connor leans over, pushing the air out of him as plants a small kiss on his chest, right in the middle. Then he gets up, back straight and cock visibly straining in his stupid briefs, and leaves the room.

The door closes and Murphy kicks off his boxers, the covers, and his reservations. He bends up his knees and gets to work, not even pretending he doesn't imagine Connor standing on the other side of the door and listening in. When a groan wants to break free, he doesn't stifle it, neither the moan that follows as his mind presents him with the memory of how tight Connor gripped him, how his body felt beneath his own when he tasted him.

How he sounded when he came just by rubbing his cock between their chests.

Murphy splays his legs, feeling wanton, feeling like a _whore_ , and comes, barely managing to turn Connor's name into a general moan. No fucking need to give him more satisfaction than necessary.

Craving a smoke, stomach grumbling and heart aching, Murphy pities himself for a while, then he cleans up and makes his way to the kitchen, shoulders squared in case Connor lurks around the corner.

He doesn't.

The only thing left of him is a pot of coffee and no used mug in the sink. With a sigh, Murphy helps himself to a cup and takes to searching both stories of the house, including the porch as Connor's usual brooding place. He looks out of every window, sticks his head out the front door, and wanders back into the bedroom to confirm whether Connor's rosary is still on the bedside table.

It is.

Connor wouldn't have left without it.

Or maybe he would have if he felt he couldn't go into the bedroom to collect it.

Also, the fridge is full and there is no car parked on the street because they don't have one anymore.

Murphy sits.

The hours creep past, and by the time he drank the entire pot of coffee, the idea of Connor coming back with fucking bagels is so absurd he wants to laugh. He doesn't, he fries up some eggs instead, then he busies himself with sorting laundry and exercising his leg to pass more time, and then it's lunchtime and he stands around dumbly.

The missing presence around him leaves him empty even though they wouldn't communicate all the time anyway. Fucking apparently, just knowing Connor to be around somewhere is something he's so used to he doesn't know what to do without it.

Mood sour, Murphy grabs a random book and settles on the couch, thumbing through it without reading a single page before he tries the TV—which leaves his brain unoccupied enough to raise endless scenarios about this morning being the straw that broke the fucking camel's back. Maybe Connor decided for good. Maybe he's looking for a flat of his own already, right this moment.

All right, that's stupid.

It takes another hour of staring into space and working up a headache, then he's on the phone, scowling at the wall and dialing Dolly's number. “Hello,” he says after getting put through.

Dolly sighs, rather long. “That was fast.”

“Aye,” Murphy says, trying to at least sound like a sane person because he fucking sure isn't. “Got any news?”

There's a beat of silence.

“I thought we agreed you'd take a few days off,” Dolly says, and Murphy breathes again.

“That's right,” he says, nodding. “Just wanted to make sure we're on the same page here.” He frowns. “Have a good day.” He hangs up, fucking awkward, but at least he knows Connor didn't—call one of them to say he doesn't want anything to do with him anymore.

What a load of horseshit.

Murphy paces for a bit, and when his leg begins twinging, he settles in for an extensive prayer despite the lack of actual reasons to be worried; there are no signs of a struggle, no break-in, no fucking police anywhere. They wouldn't have left with only one of the MacManus brothers in the first place, but Murphy prays the whole rosary nonetheless, just in fucking case, fingers tight around the beads and an uneasiness sitting in his stomach like a stone.

When the sun sets, he vaguely decides on dinner by staring at the cupboards, and the key turns in the lock. Connor ambles inside, kicks the door shut, and aims for the kitchen table. He's wearing a shirt, tattoos visible for everyone and anyone to see.

It's cold.

“Are ye fucking demented?” Murphy asks. “Were ye outside like this all fucking day? Want us to run again or what?”

Connor sits and clasps his hands on the ugly wood of the table. “I want neither of us to get punished,” he says, and it takes a good few seconds until Murphy connects the words to his earlier—pleading.

“Good for ye,” he says, plopping down on the other chair while his heart races, ready for a fight instead of whatever it is they're going to do now. He didn't think through what he said, it just came out of his fucking mouth because he wanted Connor's hand on his fucking cock, but it was the truth nonetheless; he would take the punishment on himself if that's what it takes.

“We can redeem ourselves,” Connor says. “I've been thinking about it all day. If we tried, we could do it. He would forgive us.”

Even after all this time, hearing Connor's thoughts about it hurts more than it should. His brother said it often enough, it's clear he believes their relationship to be a sin, but to believe in a sin and _want_ it so badly at the same time—that can't be healthy.

Murphy swallows, weighing his options. He could take Connor's side, say what his brother needs to hear to smooth everything over. To go back to how they were - but not all the way back. Their love wouldn't disappear simply because they decided not to act on it.

Or he could admit how he feels about it, the sin, the thing. How he feels about it deep down without apologizing for it.

Aye.

“We could redeem ourselves,” Murphy says, licking his lips. “Ye can. I won't.”

“Of course ye can,” Connor rushes out. “I'd help-”

“Ye can't help—well, ye could, but I don't want ye to.” Ears hot, Murphy looks at the table, forcing the words out of his mouth, “Redeeming myself means I'd have to repent my actions, to acknowledge this is wrong, and I'm- I know how it feels to have ye moving against me now. I won't forget that and I won't let anyone tell me to look at this memory in any other way than I'm doing now.”

Connor crosses himself before he even says the words, “Jesus Christ.”

They look at each other over what feels like a godforsaken canyon.

“We're supposed to be in this together,” Connor says, voice small and eyes down again. “I can't do it if ye don't even consider the option. It's not fair.”

With his heart so heavy he's surprised he manages it, Murphy stands and steps around the table, cupping Connor's face as his brother rushes out a breath. “That isn't fair either,” Murphy says gently. “I didn't say I want ye to follow me in this. It's my own decision, just for me. If ye want me to, I'll support yers as well. I'll do it even if it takes ye away from me.”

The last part cuts deep, squeezing the rest out of his miserable heart. Connor leans forward, breathing against his ratty shirt, inviting him to comb through his hair until Connor draws back again. His eyes are damp, but there are no tears. “What a fucking shitfest,” Connor states, rolling his eyes and sniffing very pointedly.

“It fucking is.” Murphy tries for a grin, stepping back to give Connor space, to pretend their situation isn't as awful as it is. He leans back against the counter. “Where were ye anyway?” he asks as Connor lights a smoke. “Had me worried there for a while.”

Through the smoke, Connor glares. “I could hear ye fucking go at it, ye knob,” he says, and his glare dies down to make room for a nice shade of red on his cheeks. “I thought it best to take a walk before I—ye know. Explode. Ended up in a church nearby, stayed there for a while.”

Well, then.

“Ye know I even called Dolly like a paranoid geebag?” Murphy grins again, pleased as Connor snorts out a laugh.

“What, to ask whether they granted me asylum cause I couldn't stand yer hideous mug anymore?” Connor blows smoke through his nose like the most handsome dragon, and Murphy longs again, but only briefly.

“Something like that,” he says, crossing his arms. “Don't do it again, aye? Like that.”

“I won't. Felt guilty all day.” Connor rolls his eyes. “I didn't even take my gun, can ye believe that? I fucking forgot it. Dense, that's what it is.”

The longing cuts, forcing him to stretch his neck to shake off the feeling of an idea taking root somewhere in his back, hidden. Staying quiet, Murphy watches it unfurl with a dry mouth and a heart that beats too fast.

It's time. A bit longer and he'll start withering away as Connor did before he knew what it was about.

It's _time_.

For the rest of the day, Connor stays within arm's reach, fucking grating on his nerves with his lurking, but it's so indefinitely better than the alternative, Murphy feels like floating. He doesn't, obviously, because he isn't a sap.

When they go to bed, it's a quiet affair, but Connor doesn't leave it at holding hands this time; he scoots closer, messing around with the covers in an attempt to achieve the fucking unknown until Murphy lifts them with an irritated sigh, and Connor, the sneaky bastard, dives right under his arm and makes himself comfortable on his chest.

His elbow pokes him, as does his knee.

The idea grows.

*

In the park, eating ice cream on a bench, Connor sits with his shades on and his turtleneck rolled down, and Murphy loves him, sun, grass, tattoos and all, even the stupid beard he insists on growing.

People mill about on the paths, no hurrying in the middle of the day, no tension. Just chatter and Connor giving him a look behind his shades. He can tell.

Murphy sticks out his tongue before he looks at his ice cream again. It's cold against his lips, a contrast to Connor's thigh pressing against his here in the middle of everything green. He left his gun at the house, and instead of missing its weight, he feels free.

The idea has grown enough branches to be considered a tree.

“I'm tired,” Connor says. He isn't, or at least he doesn't look like it—Murphy spent the last hour glancing at him from behind his own shades, after all.

In case he missed a sign, Murphy takes another look, letting his eyes roam over his brother, over his long-sleeved shirt. The arm without the cross is bare, the shirt bunched up around his elbow. “Of this life?” he asks, half question, half statement.

Connor nods, and Murphy thinks of guns and disguises and safe houses. He thinks about car rides ending with choke-holds and sunny days in parks with long-sleeved shirts. “It's changing us.”

“It is.” Connor sighs like someone twice his age and avoids looking at him. “It really is.”

They're talking about different things.

Murphy shoves the spoon in his mouth to cover up the confusion that wants to be hurt. If he let it.

He doesn't; it'd be painful and too sudden, and his plan is a good one.

Changing the subject, he memorizes the picture of Connor in the sun, gunless and carefree, ice cream in one hand and smoke in the other - he takes it and saves it and stows it deep in his mind like he did with the picture from the fridge. Hidden from view so it can't hurt anyone, but still available if he ever wants to look at it.

*

In the evening, after he looked at the photograph after all and the clenching in his insides mixed with a too heavy longing, Murphy decides that the time for cowardliness is over. He has, plain and simple, nothing else to lose. Two ways of thinking, supplementing each other until it turns to something brilliant; that's what they've always been about and it can't have changed just because their love changed. The core of their relationship has to be there, buried somewhere.

He wouldn't know what to do otherwise.

The living room is cast in an ugly mix of yellow and orange, too artificial and nothing like the soft light of the sun before. Connor stands by the window, a stark silhouette. There are lines on his face that weren't there before, highlighted by the shadows.

“Connor,” he says softly.

Connor looks over his shoulder, then he turns and leans against the window sill. With the sun at his back, his outline glows, hiding the lines and the tightness around his eyes just as well as the rosary he forgot to take off.

“Earlier, ye misunderstood.” Murphy gnaws on his lip, then he sits down for the occasion, only partly because his leg doesn't feel up for standing. “I looked at ye and ye were happy.”

“That's what that was about.” Connor comes over to sit on the armrest, feet on the floor and body angled toward him.

“Ye were happy, I just noticed right then.” Murphy clears his throat. “I think I forgot the look of it,” he says, voice raw already even though he hasn't properly started yet, and Connor sits too still to pretend he thinks this is going to be small talk.

“Are ye trying to say I'm moping around on a regular basis?”

“I'm trying to say it's been so long that I can't remember when- I didn't notice it wasn't there anymore, ye being happy.” Murphy looks up, catching Connor's eyes. “I want that again, for ye.”

Connor looks at him, lips parted and breath coming shallowly, and Murphy swallows against the heart-sized lump in his throat.

“I want to take that burden away, if ye let me. It's slowing ye down, and before today, I didn't know how much. I just didn't.”

Connor takes a sharp breath, fists balled on his thighs, and this is wrong again. This is supposed to be the preamble of his greater speech about going elsewhere, about just being them for a fucking while. Nothing to stare at him for.

“What do ye mean with 'if I let ye'?” Connor croaks. “Of course I'd _let_ ye, but what if it means we have to go back to how we were? Ye'd have to be fine with it as well. It's not just me, Murph.”

It's wrong.

It's them.

Them, the reason Connor thinks he's miserable. He feels slowed down by it, and his plan is obviously a very different one.

“If that's what it takes, I- Yer my brother, Con.”

“What?”

“My twin,” Murphy whispers. “My other half. I'll love ye even when ye leave me. It's in my blood, my bones.”

Connor jerks so violently, he shoots upright with the force of it. “That's sacrilegious,” he hisses. “And I won't fucking leave, Jesus Christ!” He signs the cross, and Murphy wipes his cheeks to avoid looking at him.

“Ye will. It's all right, it's not yer fault,” he says, pleading again. “But it's not mine either, aye? This is how He made me and I can't- It's how I am.” It's the only truth he knows, and Connor looks like he's been struck by lightning.

“Cross purposes?” he stresses. “Ye meant something else. Ye were going to say something else.”

Murphy waves him off, flinching back as Connor grips his shoulder.

“Yer fucking crying, Murph!” His hand leaves, jerking upwards to pull at his own hair. “This is fucking awful. We used to be in fucking sync and now look at us!”

“Don't ye fucking yell at me,” Murphy snaps, standing. He paces away and Connor follows at once.

“I'm not fucking yelling, I'm telling ye how it is! I hurt ye at every turn and I didn't- I didn't use to do that, no? Don't ye tell me what ye wanted to say wasn't important. I can't read yer fucking mind, but I fucking see ye just fine!”

All around him, everything burns. The orange light, the sun disappearing behind the houses on the other side of the street, the air in his lungs forcing its way outside in bursts. His fucking _eyes_ as if he's in kindergarten again, helpless and unable to express himself.

Murphy takes a stuttering breath and thinks, quietly, that he forgot to hate Connor for a while now and that it'd be easier to simply turn back to it. “Do ye think it will get better if we stay here? Where we are, how we are. Ye think it'll get easier?”

Connor stares and stares, panting even though he stands motionless. “I had hoped so,” he says at last. “Before ye said ye don't want to repent.”

Murphy laughs, an awful sound even to his own ears. “Yer a fucking arsehole. It's going to be my fault, ye've got it all planned out already, no? Suppose I should be glad yer clearing this up once and for all.”

“That's not what I said.”

“Since ye were so good at dealing with it on yer own. Did I get that right?” Murphy turns to leave, but then he changes his mind and turns right back again. “If this is my fucking fault, how come ye were—essentially at fucking peace with yerself before I found out? So happy the Lord Himself had to send a fucking dream to demonstrate yer glorious happiness?”

“Murph-”

“Ye can go fuck yerself. I've had enough. Go sit in yer happy bubble and pretend yer fucking fine. Suit yerself and see if I care.” It's a lie, all of it, but when he turns to leave this time, he doesn't falter. He walks on, jaw clenched and fists clenched, holding his breath and fucking walking—

Connor is on him, gripping him from behind.

Murphy stumbles and crashes into the table. “Get off me!” he cries. The phone clatters to the ground and he grips the door frame for balance as Connor pulls him back by his wrist.

“Where're ye going?”

Murphy whips around and shoves at Connor's shoulder, missing a step as Connor doesn't resist but lets himself be moved like he weighs nothing.

“Where are ye going?” he asks again, high and fast. “We weren't finished-”

“We fucking are!” Murphy cries. “How fucking long ye think I'll stand around getting accused of ruining yer life?” He twitches, shoulders drawn up and ready for another attack as Connor reaches for him again. It's slow this time, careful. Connor's hand closes around his arm, holding him back with a touch so soft it feels like Connor fears the bone will snap under his fingers.

“Tell me,” Connor says. “Tell me, Murph. Tell me what ye wanted to say. I'll listen. I promise I'll listen.”

This is begging, and what's left of his heart breaks for good, barriers breaking and crumbling down to nothing at all. “It's nothing, ye don't want to, I know ye don't.”

Connor waits.

Murphy swallows, raw. “I thought ye might ye might want to go home with me.”

“I do,” Connor says, and Murphy sobs, angry.

“Not for me,” he hisses, uneven and pathetic. “With me. Never again for me, ye have to promise.”

“I can't do that,” Connor says softly. He inches closer, hovering without touching. “That's what's in _my_ blood, don't ye know?”

Murphy sobs again, curling forward to hide from view, flinching without meaning to as Connor circles his arms around him.

“It's only natural,” Connor whispers into his hair. “I want what ye want. That's just how it is, brother.”

The want was never the problem. His tears soak into Connor's shirt, into his skin. He doesn't say it; he doesn't need to. This is enough, they've done enough. Maybe it isn't worth it after all, but maybe it's too late to go back as well.

“Do ye have a plan?” Connor asks when he steps back. There's a half-smile on his face.

“Not really.”

Connor's smile turns full, mending several pieces of Murphy's heart at once. “There's no reason to take things slow, no? I'll make the calls.”

He wants to ask: why the change of heart, why the sudden agreement, why the sudden haste, has he had similar thoughts, is he doing it with him, not for him?

Will he be unhappy?

“We're no longer safe.” Connor reaches for his hand, guiding him upwards, and curls their fingers around his rosary. “We've done enough here,” he says, too sure like he always sounds when he plans to take a decision on himself rather than dividing the responsibility between them. “Doesn't mean we can't go back to it if it ever feels right. Someday. But for now, we've done enough. Don't ye worry about that.”

Murphy smiles despite himself. “I didn't,” he says, and only after, he realizes it's the truth. He spent so much time worrying about any and everything, but this - it hasn't crossed his mind once. With a nod, he squeezes Connor's hand and the rosary in it. “Make the calls.”


	17. Chapter 17

Chain-smoking on the couch, Murphy listens as Connor makes the calls until he's sick hearing of the same sentences over and over. Connor's voice is firm and sure like it always is when his mind is made up. He's unmovable like that, and Murphy's heart swells with it, and then he leaves because he's turning into a lass and that can't be good for anything.

He sets up tea and finishes his second cup by the time Connor wanders in with his mouth pulled into a thin line. “Can't say that Dolly didn't sound relieved,” he mutters. “And Smecker tried to have a talk about it. A talk, Murph. Ye can be fucking glad ye got out of that one.”

“Bad?”

“Horrible.”

Murphy laughs, heart light as he waits for Connor to sit as well. “And the rest?”

“Eunice - bless her noble soul - says she's going to set us up with new passports and some means of transportation I've got no idea about.” Connor grins and steals his smoke. “I say we leave her to it lest we end up with a different kind of vacation if we do it ourselves.”

“Seems wise,” Murphy says, eyeing his smoke. It's between Connor's lips, and Connor isn't even pulling at it. “So we wait now?”

“Might take a few days, I suppose.” Connor shrugs, taking a quick drag. “Time enough to make us sick of burgers and fries and whatnot. Won't see much of that once we're gone.”

There's a lump in his throat, fucking again. Murphy swallows it as he steals back his smoke. “And ice cream,” he says. The filter is damp. “Sleeping in.”

Connor grins. “See, there's much more to do than just waiting,” he says, briefly waggling his eyebrows. “Where do we start, eh?”

By going to bed and not getting up until they leave for good.

“We should probably call ahead.”

“Aye, guess so.” Connor cocks his head, eyes shiny. “Ye want me to?”

Murphy nods, swallowing when Connor reaches over to cup his neck. He's leaning all the way over the table for it, squeezing gently before he takes the burnt down filter from his fingers and stubs it out.

“He'll be happy, I'm sure.”

Possibly, since that's what Noah said—in different words. Noah doesn't strike him as a man who breaks his promises - other than his marriage vows - but his interest in dealing with the man before he has to is minimal at best.

At Connor's retreating footsteps, Murphy looks up and follows to listen out of curiosity, but after the first 'Da', he goes back into the kitchen and starts on dinner.

He'll learn to live with it. He has to, and given the ton of other things he's learned to live with during the past year, it can't be too hard. Maybe, someday in the future, he'll love Noah too.

Maybe, even farther into the future, he'll call him Da as well.

When they go to bed, Connor doesn't curl around him; he takes his hand and holds it fast, and it's the next best thing even if Murphy wants more, always more. There's time now. They have time, they'll have all their lives, and leaving can only mean those lives will last longer than what they would have faced in staying.

It'll be all right.

*

They spend their days in a dizzy haze of trying to create as many good memories as possible if only to have something positive to look back on rather than the endless disputes, tears, and the occasional bullet holes. It's so very nice, Murphy doubts their decision over the smallest things, but he remembers without fail when they lie in bed with an inch of space between them, their hands the only point of contact and the heat beneath the covers stifling.

Leaving is the only way. A fresh start - the only opportunity to pretend all of their fuck-ups originated in being here, testing their boundaries and sinning for half-cooked ideas of possession and love.

Murphy thinks, quiet and only when his brother is out of sight—he thinks that when Connor makes his decision, it'll be easier to get over it once he is where he longs to be; endless green, the soft crackling of an open fire in a house of stone, Noah one door away doing whatever he's doing when he isn't shooting people. Going out far to find lost sheep, driving to town and staying the night - however Connor's decision will fall, it has to be easier bearing it at home instead of here. He will be free.

*

“Hello, boys,” Eunice says. They blink at her. “Did you think I'd send these by mail?” She waves an envelope in their faces and shakes her head as she pushes past them into the hallway. “Now let me look at you.” The door falls shut and they stand motionless, waiting to be inspected—which she does, while taking her time about it. In the end, there's a smile on her face. “Very well,” she says, shedding her coat and aiming for the kitchen where she slaps the envelope on the table with a rather dramatic sound.

“Nice of ye to bring them by in person,” Connor says as they follow her.

Eunice cocks her head, eyes smart and hair bound into a ponytail, and he'll miss her. It's the first pang of regret he feels, and it squeezes his heart, if only a bit.

“Ye will be missed,” Murphy states, bumping against Connor's shoulder for agreement.

“That's right,” Connor says dutifully.

“That's how it is for you, isn't it?” Eunice laughs. “You leave, but in your mind, it's us who are leaving.” Murphy frowns. “Oh, don't pull a face.”

Connor shrugs, warm against his arm and with a stupid smile on his face while Eunice still smiles. It looks pitiful.

“I thought I grasped the concept of how you two work,” she says, “but I guess I misjudged the extent of it.”

“I've got no idea what yer saying,” Murphy says as she pats his cheek, very uncalled-for and also very nice. Connor clears his throat. “But it's not important, is it?” Murphy adds, locking eyes with her, trying to silently warn her not to—say anything out loud. For the sake of peace.

“For fuck's sake, Murph.” Connor grabs the envelope. “She's saying we don't feel as if we're leaving anything behind. Don't be thick.”

Murphy stares, and Connor is so focused on their brand-new passports, it takes him a good few seconds to notice it, then he glances at Eunice and licks his lips. Murphy crowds in, switching to Russian and prompting Connor to do the same, “But we do leave stuff behind.”

“For the love of- Murphy, brother. We take with us what we need.” Connor glares. “All we need.”

Oh.

“Oh,” Murphy says.

Connor gives him both his stink eye and the passports. “They look sound,” he states, bloody awkward, but at least it's in English again.

“They will do,” Eunice agrees, clearly unperturbed by their hushed conversation. “Everything else you need should be inside. It's best we go over it, yes?” They migrate into the living room and take their accustomed places. Once settled, Eunice smooths out her skirt and crosses her ankles. “I have to ask - are you sure?”

The question is for him. She looks at him, not at Connor, quiet and demanding and eyes hard as steel, and given their previous conversations—

“We are,” Connor says.

Murphy sighs, dramatic. “We are,” he says, gauging her reaction. She doesn't seem convinced, though her frown is barely visible. “It was my idea,” he tries. “I asked to go home and Connor agreed. We're sure.”

For a few moments, the silence is tense enough he can almost hear Connor grinding his teeth, but there's nothing to be done about it. Connor will have to fucking live with that question, swallow the bitter pill and be done with it. It's his own bloody fault, that's what it is.

Eventually, Eunice's frown smooths out again. “Very well,” she says, nodding first at him, then at Connor. Her smile looks apologetic, and it's gone as soon as she reaches for the envelope again. “Now - I've organized room on a ship that leaves two days from now. You'll have to work for your stay, but they won't look at your papers too closely. Well—no one will care about your papers except on entry, and by then you're already in Ireland and I trust you to make it work on your own.”

Beside him, Connor nods. “Can we drive there or should we take the bus?”

“Take the bus,” Eunice says. “There are several routes, you can go by train as well. I prepared for both options, all the routes are in the papers. If you need me to, I can get a contact to pick you up once you reach the harbor, but I thought you might want to organize transport yourself.” She pauses. “Direct family would be unwise.”

There it is again, the eternal reminder of a freedom that's only imagined.

“Once we're home, we'll manage,” Connor says, glancing over. They share a look Murphy can't read, then Connor looks away again and studies the information Eunice printed out for them. “The last time we were on a ship, there was barely any space at all.”

“Afraid of bunk beds now?”

Connor rolls his eyes. “Luggage, Murph.”

“We can send you the rest once you arrive,” Eunice says.

“If it fits into a car, it's gonna fit on a ship.” Murphy looks from one to the other, already frowning before Connor opens his mouth again.

“We don't need a lot of it once we're home,” Connor says as he scoots closer, barely noticeable and very bold, and it takes Murphy a good few seconds to realize he's doing it to fucking soothe him.

“Forget it,” he hisses. “I'm not giving up my guns. And we _will_ need fucking money, who knows how Noah's doing with shoveling sheep shit. We can't go look for fucking jobs, Connor.”

“All right, fuck.” Connor glares, briefly glancing at Eunice who lounges on her armchair with a polite smile on her face. “We hold onto the guns and some of the money, give her the rest. That would leave—5 bags? Sounds good?”

Murphy shrugs, ears hot because the limited space on the ship fell from his mind again. Adamant to not let it show, he turns to Eunice as Connor gets up to sort through their bags. “Anything else we should know?”

“You have the tickets, passports, and papers,” she says. “If you don't have any more questions, that's it from my side. Something isn't clear, you give me a call.”

“Will do.”

“And don't be strangers.” She stands with a smile and Murphy does the same. “You have my number, you can call at any time. I won't say I'm going to keep you in the loop, but if we happen to come across some drastic changes, you can expect a call from me as well.”

This is goodbye now, and it doesn't feel as easy as he thought it would even though they haven't been in close contact with her ever since he got shot. It's still a farewell, perhaps for years, and Murphy sighs. “Come here,” he says, closing his arms around her thin frame, so different from what he's used to feel against him now. Her hair tickles in his nose, as does her perfume, and a longing for Connor's stupid aftershave creeps up his back at once.

“Don't be greedy now,” Connor says.

They switch places, and Murphy turns away to check the bags Connor packed as they share a short hug themselves. When they escort her to the door, Eunice turns with a smile on her face that's so much more carefree than she looked during her last visit, Murphy has to swallow against the perpetual lump in his throat.

“I'll let the others know our resources have increased greatly. Thank you.”

“The least we can do, really,” Connor grins. “Since yer losing the best resource ye have. Tragic, that's what it is.”

She rolls her eyes.

Murphy shoves him out of the way. “Say goodbye for us, will ye?”

With one last nod, she takes her leave, heels clicking down the driveway and money secure in her hands.

“I will miss her,” Murphy says as he closes the door. “If only cause she calls ye out on yer bloody bullshit.”

Connor flips him off and slings his arm around his shoulder at the same time. “Two days,” he says, waggling his eyebrows like he's having a stroke. “Fancy some ice cream? Pictures, burgers after?”

“Is that a date?” Murphy asks. He shouldn't, in fact, but needling Connor has always been so very easy and he can't help it.

“Ye wish.” Connor shoves him and stumbles since he doesn't remove his arm in the process. “But it does sound good, no?” His voice quiets down, and Murphy's heart stutters. “And tomorrow, we stay in?”

Flustered and stupid, Murphy nods and pulls away to change into something that covers up his various tattoos while trying to stop his hands from shaking.

It isn't _important_ , but it still ruins the pretext he formed in his mind, the one where he tells himself this is only a silly infatuation, a slightly exaggerated way in which he loves his brother, and that maybe Connor feels the same. It isn't, and as long as Connor keeps delaying his final decision, Murphy isn't sure whether to be heartbroken or glad about it.

*

He wakes prepared to feel sorry for himself, and then he can't _breathe_ with it all—it's Connor, crushing him.

Groaning, Murphy tries to rescue his arm from underneath Connor's shoulder. Connor grunts, vague, and moves the needed inch while blinking at him out of bleary eyes. As soon as he pulls free, Connor scoots back against his numb arm, mumbling unintelligibly while Murphy flexes his fingers to get the blood flowing again.

It's hard to breathe with Connor's weight on him - which is a miracle in itself. There's no meat on him at all, but Connor is still heavy as fuck and apparently set on killing him by crushing.

And it's the last time.

The thought kept him awake for longer than he cares to admit. Last night, after the date that wasn't a date, they fell asleep together for the last time, and now they woke up together for the last time. It's a silly thing to dwell on; most likely, they'll keep sleeping in the same room, seeing and hearing each other like they always did.

Still.

Connor is heavy and warm and sort of smelly, and Murphy winds his arm around him to keep him there forever. Or to take off his clothes and pull him back on top of him.

With Noah in the same house and nowhere to hide, maybe it's for the best they won't share a bed any longer. At the least, it should help against the want.

“Ye think we're gonna have the dream again one day?” Connor asks quietly.

Murphy blinks, thrown off, and barely stops himself from whooping in victory because Connor chose to say 'dream' instead of 'nightmare'. He's done it for a while now, and Murphy loves him very much. “Don't think we'll have it again,” he says, and he finds out he means it right after. “There's no more use for it. We know everything we need to know.”

“Ye think...” Connor pauses, heaving a sigh as Murphy traces the scar on his back. “Ye think the dream was our reward?” Murphy stares down at his unruly hair. “Not what we make of it, but the dream itself.” Connor cranes his head and twists a smile at him. “The revelation, so to speak. It'd mean ye were right about the Lord granting us a reward. I still don't- I can't believe the reward is what we make of it, but the dream itself—that's possible, no?”

“Dunno,” Murphy says, heart in his throat. “I don't have all the answers, ye know.”

Connor snorts. “Don't I fucking know that,” he states before he presses a kiss against his chest. “But I wasn't asking anyhow, I was telling ye.”

Which is a lie, but it's also how Connor works, so Murphy rolls his eyes and makes peace with it as Connor uncurls like a bloody cat.

“Make me breakfast,” Murphy demands. To make his point clear, he shoves at Connor's shoulder and grins when his brother grumbles but gets up nonetheless. Rolling into his warm spot, Murphy watches him leave, eyes lingering over his back, the cut he traced with his fingers just moments ago. The sun peeks through the curtains and illuminates Connor in the best way, highlighting his long lines and skinny limbs, scars, tattoos. His arse.

His hand flipping him off.

Murphy laughs and waits with closed eyes and more excitement than reasonable for the smell of coffee to hit his nose, this time accompanied by the faint sound of cooking eggs. Another last time, and something they've done even before the whole mess started, ever since they got their first flat, even draftier and colder than the one without a bloody bathroom.

He'll miss it.

Maybe Noah won't be there all the time, maybe he gets up at the crack of dawn to milk the cows or whatever he's doing, and they're allowed to keep this routine, the hint of intimacy no one would frown upon.

When he can't wait any longer, Murphy jumps out of bed and joins Connor in the kitchen, barely able to contain himself from doing something tremendously stupid like wrapping his arms around him while he cooks. Instead, he sits and watches Connor work the stove, coffee in one hand, smoke in the other, and arse really fucking fine in those briefs he's wearing.

They sit with their breakfast until they've gone through an entire pot of coffee, a huge load of eggs, and several smokes, and after a quick visit to the church, they pack their bags to have the rest of the day free. It ends with a cramp in his leg, of course, but at least it's only midday and they don't have to hit the road for a while yet.

“The last time I took this out,” Connor says as he kneels in front of him, “it ended differently.” He grins, dirty, and rolls up the leg of Murphy's jeans.

Murphy sits, gawking down at his stupid handsome brother and the balm in his hand. “What- Connor.” It was on purpose, back then. That night, Connor went into the bathroom and he got the balm and they fucking fucked and he makes jokes about it. “I can't believe ye just fucking said that,” he says, and then he kicks Connor for good measure and glares down at his swelling cock.

“I have no idea why, actually,” Connor mutters as he starts working on his muscle.

“Because yer mean.” Murphy licks his lips, shifting because this is _routine_ and his cock continues to rise anyway, bloody unbothered. “Look what ye did,” he says, way too crass, and changes course at once. “Don't look.”

“Oh.”

“Leave it,” Murphy croaks. “Just ignore it.”

“Mh.” Connor works on, brows furrowed in concentration, or maybe with something else. “Do ye want me to pack the bullet?” he asks eventually, soft and directed at his leg. His fingers keep up their work, and Murphy swallows.

“Aye. We put in a jar or something, make a fucking shrine out of it.”

Connor lifts his eyebrows.

“Just saying,” Murphy mutters, shifting again. It's for nothing, even focusing on his actual, literal gunshot wound doesn't deter his bloody cock from getting hard. “All right, just- Thank ye. For the massage.”

“Yer welcome,” Connor says, grinning as he smooths Murphy's pants back down, eyes firm on where he's firm, and it's awkward until Murphy kicks him again and Connor picks up the jar to fling it at his head, and then there's some tackling and he ends up in Connor's headlock.

Connor pulls him back on the couch and they wind up watching daytime TV, and it's terrible. They eat the last of the pretzels and drink the last beer, and Connor's arm is behind him on the couch, and it's awesome. Murphy presses against Connor's side despite pizza crumbs and ash scattering everywhere, unwilling to move until they absolutely have to in order catch the ship.

When they leave, he doesn't look back. He puts the cane next to the trash, holds onto Connor's wrist, and doesn't let go until they reach the harbor.

*

They have to bribe their way in with the fifth bag and are shown to a room the size of a cupboard.

There's a bunk bed.

Murphy drops his bags with a groan, and the only reason he doesn't fall straight into bed is Connor's insisting they check out the communal showers before the rest of the crew wakes up and said showers will be crowded with 'fat men from all over the world, Murph'.

Behind the privacy of a half-wall separating the stalls, Murphy lets the water wash away the long hours on the bus even though the bed - preferably the top bunk - calls for him in strong and insistent words. Once done, he trudges after Connor through too narrow passageways, only getting lost once before they're back in their room.

Murphy kicks off his shoes and peels out of his dirty clothes until he comes to the realization that he's the only one moving as if Connor vanished somewhere behind him in the dark. As soon as he starts turning, Connor stalls him—with his head. It's pressed against his shoulder, his breath raising goosebumps along Murphy's back where he hasn't quite dried yet.

“Murph.” Connor rubs his forehead against him, a small sound stuck in his throat. “'m not strong enough.”

Fucking _Christ_.

“Tell me.” His nerves force him to stay rooted to the spot instead of turning and clocking Connor a good one. He huffs, twitching away from Connor's bloody touch when there's no answer. “Fucking make up yer mind, aye? Tell me and get it fucking over with.”

“Tell ye what?” Connor whispers, dense on purpose, a fucking arsehole through and through.

“In which fucking way to love ye.” His cheeks burn, and he doesn't want to know.

He waits. Then he waits with his jaw clenched, with his fists, with his ears ringing, until Connor finally steps back. His missing breath leaves Murphy's back cold, but it's only for a moment, then his heart restarts with a stutter; Connor's hand comes up, his palm sliding roughly over his back, dragging through the leftover wetness. Murphy jerks out of reach and Connor follows at once, fingers splayed over his skin, warm and possessive.

They've had this argument, they've had it so often there's no fucking way Connor hasn't thought this through from every possible angle.

Bile rises in his throat, forcing him to swallow, to count to ten, to breathe. If Connor had just fucking waited until they're home and not stuck on a fucking ship without room to flee, nowhere to fucking _go_.

Something clicks, metallic—the lock.

Murphy looks over his shoulder, blinking through the dark at the vague shape of his brother, first by the door, then he's moving, closing in without making a sound. He squeezes his shoulder as Murphy tries to turn and fucking face him. “Let me,” Connor rumbles. “Let me do this.”

Nothing about this can be good.

Connor's arms slide around him, hands spreading out over his chest. “Let me be good to ye.”

It's shady as fuck, and Connor got it all wrong, completely. He thinks he's the weak one, yet here Murphy is, not even strong enough to ask what his brother means by it, so desperate for his touch he submits without question.

Connor hooks his chin over his shoulder and starts working on his belt so quickly, Murphy has barely time to understand the action before his jeans are open and cool air hits him. Deft fingers leave him bare, brushing over his hips until he couldn't escape even if he wanted to; he's caught by his fucking pants around his ankles and Connor's breath against his neck.

Murphy sways back against his firm chest, groaning as Connor grips him without preamble. Air leaves his lungs in a rush, leaving him choking and thoughtless with the too sudden arousal. He's throbbing after two rough strokes, after a few more he stands firm, unable to stop high, shocked noises from breaking free.

It's Connor's hand. He's touching him, dry and raw and it's _Connor_ , and it's too sudden, it bloody well hurts he fills out so quickly.

“Like that?” Connor mumbles. He draws a neat circle, smearing through the wetness that's barely there yet. His nail catches, painful and so hot Murphy's knees buckle. He sobs, clawing back at Connor's neck to have something to hold onto. “Aye,” Connor breathes. “Like that.”

It's like he thought it would be, back during his memorable shower; Connor is merciless, playing him like a fiddle. The more he writhes, the firmer Connor's grip gets, and he doesn't deserve this. He doesn't, he shouldn't, it's supposed to be good and clear, not happening in the moldy dark of a ship they'll be stuck on for a week before he's finally free.

“Ye sound so different when ye touch yerself.”

Murphy keens with the implication and curls his hips away from the rawness as Connor picks up speed, close already even though none of it feels good. It's too good and it's not real, nothing about this, it's a nightmare and Connor shouldn't, he hasn't decided and he's moaning against him as if _he's_ the one being touched—

“Quiet, Murph.” Connor tightens his hold, making him snap straight with the force of his grip. “Hold on.”

“Stop. Don't ye fucking- Ye stop now and I'll-”

Connor grips the base of his cock and squeezes hard.

Murphy howls, held in place, immobilized, made to take it until his back hits the ladder of the bunk bed. The cool metal is a fucking shock, raising goosebumps everywhere, even more so when he hears a dull sound and opens his eyes to find Connor gone—

He licks at him before his hands come back to grip his hips, holding him back with a strength that's unnatural. It's dark. It's too dark but he needs to see, he has to, Connor is down there on his knees breathing against him and tasting him like he did and he can't _see_.

His cock pushes past Connor's lips and Murphy stops thinking. He bucks forward, vaguely aware of Connor choking around him. The lips tighten, teeth scrape over him, and Murphy grips Connor's hair, guides him deeper, gets slapped for it. He grips the ladder instead, twitching helplessly as Connor starts to suck without any talent at all.

He's a raw wreck of nerve endings, nothing more, and he loves him, and he feels like crying and coming at the same time.

He chooses the latter, bowing over and getting slammed back against the ladder immediately. Connor gags and doesn't pull off, and Murphy sobs, twitching around his swallowing. There isn't a coherent thought in his mind, and there still isn't when Connor draws off with a scrape of his fucking teeth again.

The loss of Connor's mouth makes him whine and choke back something he doesn't want to know about, then Connor scrambles up and plasters himself to his front in record time. He shoves his hands under his shirt and licks into him, smearing come between them, bitter and sticky.

“Ye've done so well,” Connor says, breathless and thick, fucking alarming even though he's spent, completely. “Ye've done so well, I-” Connor rolls his hips, groaning somewhere deep in his chest, and holds him in place while he ruts against his softening cock. It's too raw with Connor's jeans still closed, it hurts, and Murphy gives back as good as he can until Connor's breath hitches and he comes without moving.

The moment he's finished, they kiss again, slower, better somehow. Trading the bitter taste of his come is one of the dirtiest things he's ever done—and the best. And it goes on for long enough, Murphy can't stay on his feet any longer.

He closes his eyes and goes with the movement as hands shove at him until his arse hits the mattress.

Before, he wasn't like this. He never felt anything resembling to what he feels now, only ever with Connor, for Connor. It's not something he should bring attention to, but Connor knows he's too overwhelmed to move for a while anyway, just like he knows how Connor behaves after an orgasm - he did the same after their first time; kissing him, taking care of everything.

It's not a trait one should know about their brother, yet here they are.

Connor sits, swaying him.

Murphy opens his eyes and summons enough energy to make sense of his own state—which is lying on the bed with his feet on the floor and his cock still out.

“Gross,” Connor says, voice gruff from choking. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and Murphy's heart stops. “My pants,” Connor mumbles. “Me. Not ye.”

His cock twitches, pathetic, still out for the world to see.

“Jesus, Murph.” Connor stands and sets about redressing him, hands careful and gentle as he pulls his boxers back over his hips while Murphy wonders whether it's a good or a bad sign, Connor taking the Lord's name in vain without crossing himself.

_In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit; Amen._

Connor peels off his jeans. “Yer not helping at all,” he states, and it sounds quiet again, the same tone he used before he came onto him. Nothing else follows as he finishes undressing him and does the same to himself, including a disgusted groan as he wipes over his groin. When he's done, Connor comes back to the bed, naked and sure. “Lie the right way around, will ye?”

It takes a minute of shuffling to fit them both, and even then it's not actually comfortable, but Murphy gets to rest his head on Connor's chest and hear the quiet rumble of his heart, so the squeeze is worth it. He tangles their legs - for space purposes - as Connor curls his hand around his nape.

The feeling of it washes over him in a wave of stupid love and longing and sadness, adding to the smell of sex around them, the questionable soap still clinging to Connor's chest. It's cozy enough his post-coital haze makes him wonder how long Connor might keep pretending all of this is for him instead of himself.

Just like he did himself, back before he knew better. All these endless weeks and months; wasted.

As if he heard his thoughts, Connor's chest expands with a huge sigh. “Da will be there. We couldn't.”

If his heart could, it would beat out of his chest. “We'll herd the sheep,” Murphy whispers. “We'll go camping, exploring, riding, swimming...”

Connor squeezes his neck, letting him know he heard, and he never asked for more anyway. Maybe the half-formed suggestions will take root in Connor's mind or maybe Connor will be too busy repenting his sin come tomorrow - it doesn't matter.

By now, he knows he has no control over any of it.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The final chapter. I've worked on this for so long, I don't quite know what to do with the fact that it's over now :)  
> I knew our fandom to be small, but I saw so many new names here, I didn't expect this at all. I hope you will enjoy the finale as well, and please let me know what you think of the story overall.
> 
> I'll be back with a new (shorter) story soon :)

Murphy stands on deck, hands in the pockets of his coat and collar turned up against a wind so sharp he can't even light a smoke. The air tastes different here, lighter somehow, and even though Connor scoffs at the notion, he trails after him and spends the time until their next shift with his eyes turned toward home.

When they reach the harbor, Murphy soaks up the familiar rhythm of a language he missed more than he knew, and not even the outstanding warrant for the fellow traveler - who gets arrested - dulls his spirits. Fucking dense, Murphy thinks, showing his own fake passport and getting waved through for being a citizen.

Bags in hand, they leave the ship behind and make for the bus stop. _Breathing_ , finally.

Murphy squints up at the sky, letting the all-compassing feeling of home sink in as he inspects the dark clouds. He grins. “It's gonna be good.”

“Aye,” Connor says, following his eyes. He blows out smoke, stance loose even as he pulls his coat tighter around him. “Well,” he says then. “I love her, I do, but I could do without the weather.”

“Excuse me.”

They whip around. Murphy fumbles for where he hasn't stowed his gun for a while before Connor shoves himself in front of his shoulder.

“I was told you're in need of a car,” says—a Father. He smiles, hands raised.

Connor glances back at him. “They have a long fucking reach, don't they?”

“I don't presume to know who 'they' are,” the Father says, “but I was sent by a relative of yours - where I'm supposed to bring you now, if that's where you want to go.” He nods, decidedly calm for someone who's apparently acquainted with Il Duce. Or maybe that's the reason he's calm. Next to Noah, they're small fish.

Connor turns, eyebrows raised, and after a shared nod, the Father leads them to a car; not old, not new, not flashy. It's bland and nondescript to perfection. They squeeze their bags into the trunk, then they're off with the radio mumbling in the background and the windows rolled up against the wind.

Murphy leans back and watches the streets fly by, towers making room for smaller houses, motorways for narrower streets. Fields, eventually, and endless green. Beside him, Connor lets out a sigh so small, Murphy reaches out without looking, tapping the arm between them on the seat. Before he can withdraw again, Connor's fingers circle around his wrist, over his coat, and warmth settles in him even though the Father could turn at any moment.

The touch is innocent enough. They're just two brothers glad to be home again.

After a while, Connor's fingers twitch in his telltale sign of craving a smoke, prompting Murphy to grin and earning himself an eye-roll. They've done harder things than sitting in a car without smoking for a few hours - really. Not smoking isn't a bloody Herculean task.

Rocco wouldn't have thought so, Murphy thinks idly. His self-control was always next to nonexistent. He would've hated this, here, now. He wouldn't have come with them in the first place, but still, it's an amusing thought and it only stings a little.

“What yer thinking about?” Connor's voice cuts through the silence in a quiet rumble of Italian. He slips his thumb under Murphy's coat, stroking over the inside of his wrist.

“That Rocco would've hated this,” Murphy says, switching languages as well and trying to keep his tone light. “And that he would've made fun of ye for being jealous.”

Connor huffs. “I'm not,” he states in English and promptly turns away. “Mostly.” Italian again.

Murphy grins, hiding it as his eyes catch on the rearview mirror even though the priest isn't looking at him; he's focused on the road, face smooth like he isn't bothered by the change in languages, the obvious effort of hiding their conversation from him. He's giving them the perfect illusion of privacy, and Murphy's heart aches, but just a little.

“Aye,” Connor says at length. “He would've hated it.” He sighs, then he raises his voice, “Are ye part of the network, then?”

The priest glances into the mirror. “I don't know anything about a network,” he says, smiling in that weird way holy people do sometimes. “You boys come to me for confession, yes?” he asks, briefly turning to look at them both. “For everything else as well.”

Murphy nods, pondering what Noah might've told him about them, their life, their agenda. The thought feels heavy somehow, though he doesn't regret a thing. They've done important work. They were His hands and dealt out His justice, and none of it is worthy of confession.

And the rest—the rest isn't something to confess either.

By the time the car finally slows down, the sun begins to set.

About to crawl out of his skin with the need to smoke, Murphy lights one the second he's out of the car, eyes on their father - on the porch, hands clasped behind his back - and the house in front of them.

There were no pictures, but before Noah left, he described it in great detail and full of longing, unconsciously sharing how homesick he'd been. It must've been decades and still he got the details right, so precise the picture he painted in Murphy's mind comes to life now; the peeling paint, a giant door, wood in shades from light to dark to moldy. The stable, the barn, the garden - it's all there like he described it.

Connor jostles their shoulders. A smoke hangs from his lips, eyes hidden behind his shades despite the sinking sun. “This is it, then,” he says quietly, and it sounds like a question. Murphy bites his lip and watches on as the priest steps up to Noah and exchanges a few words with him.

“'m a bit nervous, I guess.” Strangely so, at least until Connor removes his shades and looks at him. Murphy holds his gaze, grounding himself until it's fine again and they get their bags.

“I'll be off,” the priest says. “I expect to see you soon, aye?” He smiles and gets into his car. Murphy crushes his smoke under his boot and raises his hand in a half-hearted wave as the man drives off.

“Come now,” Noah says from the porch, chin high and back straight like it doesn't even occur to him to come down to greet them.

They take their bags and climb the few steps to the porch, and Murphy sees him actually smiling—even as Noah's eyes lock onto his leg. It's unerring, raises his hackles until he gets it under control again.

“It's good to see you, boys,” Noah rumbles, reaching out to lay heavy hands on their shoulders. It feels a bit like witnessing an omniscient being that both judges and reassures behind his dark eyes, and Murphy is glad for it when Noah steps back again, especially when Connor sways after his hand, desperate for the approval of a man they barely know.

Noah shows them through the house.

It's not much, but it's a home - which is more than they had since the Russians came and changed their lives for good. The house has only one story, though several rooms spread out generously. There are two open fireplaces, one for cooking and one as a source of heat in the living room. On the other side of the house are two bedrooms, one for Noah - whose door stays closed - and one for them; twin beds, wardrobe, a single window.

And a lock.

Noah nods at the key on the dresser and Murphy stands frozen in panic. No fucking way he already knows, they've been here for half an _hour_ — “I'll prepare dinner,” Noah says, a rare sight of discomfort on his face as he marches outside. The door closes behind him, leaving them rooted in place with their bags in hand.

“Ye think...” Murphy whispers.

“Can't fucking be,” Connor whispers back. He drops his bags and hurries to the door, poking at the keyhole. “Best not to. We just- Let's unpack.”

They do - in silence - and proceed to sit around - also in silence - until Noah calls for them. Following the summons, they take place around the shabby kitchen table.

Noah clears his throat. “This will be a challenge for all of us,” he says, voice deep and eyes serious, “but I'm glad you decided to come. In time, I hope this will be your home as well.”

Murphy blinks.

“Thank ye for having us,” Connor mumbles.

Nodding, Noah fills their bowls with steady hands. Everything about him is slow, from his movements to his speeches to the time it takes him to look away from someone, yet he's the deadliest of them all. Perhaps that's his secret—and the reason he lived through the decades instead of getting himself killed at some point in his career.

“I know you're used to a different life,” Noah says as he sits again. “I'm used to a different life myself, to put it plainly. It took some time to get used to the open space, but I'm sure you will manage far sooner.” He places the bowls in front of them and gives them a _look_. “There isn't much privacy to be had when three grown men share a house. To make this work, I will respect your boundaries and I implore you to do the same.”

Murphy blinks again because quite frankly, the only thing on his mind is the key.

“We will,” Connor says, kicking him under the table.

“Course we will,” Murphy hurries. “We wouldn't want to cause disrespect, of course. And we like our privacy as well.” He stares at his stew, mortified even without Connor stomping on his foot.

“Very well,” Noah says. “Eat up now, get some rest. Tomorrow, I'm going to show you the land.”

They retire after a solid hour of sitting in silence. Noah isn't big on small talk - nothing they didn't know before - but it becomes quite uncomfortable when the only sounds are an occasional cough, the scraping of spoons in bowls, and the crackle of the fire.

Back in their room, Connor takes the key and locks them in, then he throws himself on the bed closest to the door like he always does, boots and all.

Murphy watches, drained and content at the same time. “We should push the beds together,” he says, and only after, he realizes what he said.

Connor looks up, nose scrunched and feet swinging from the edge of the mattress. “Aye,” he says, and that is all. They push the beds together, and when they go to sleep, Connor puts his arm around him.

It's cold and sharing body heat helps, it does. It's better than nothing, and he isn't yet ready to give this up as well, so Murphy takes it, cheeks hot with humiliation so deep it's on the verge of breaking free. Fucking weak indeed.

*

Over the next week, they get acquainted with their surroundings, their new schedule - awfully early mornings and late nights in front of the fireplace - and everything in-between; saddling horses, cooking over a fire, not freezing to death while using well water for personal hygiene. All of it is so very tiring and _good_ , it lifts Murphy's spirits until he barely remembers what's missing.

He places the photograph of them on the bedside table, and while Connor doesn't say anything about it, Murphy catches him looking at it often enough, and Connor isn't the one to talk anyway; he brought the fucking cookbooks they got for their birthday all the way from another continent and keeps looking through when he thinks no one pays attention to him.

The books get their own place in the kitchen and it won't be long before Noah and he will start a bloody cooking competition.

Thank fuck though, Noah really does need to learn something that isn't stew.

Murphy puts the bullet in a jar on the dresser, right under the mirror. It's as much of a shrine as possible, and it's home, more or less, something they brought with them. The first piece of decoration, and despite its consequences, one he wouldn't want to miss.

Connor digs up candles. They're green.

“Really, Connor?” Murphy arranges them around the jar, squinting to get it right. “We need a placemat.”

“I don't think Noah knows what that is.”

Murphy looks at his work, hands on his hips. “But I do. I want a placemat,” he says, frowning. He's warm. “Where did ye find the candles?”

“That's a secret.”

Murphy sniffs so he doesn't blush because none of this makes sense and he really does like green. “I like green.”

“I know ye do,” Connor says, quiet and with a smile that's only half, and then they get back to work so they don't have to talk about it.

When they feel safe enough to leave their guns behind, Noah gives them directions to the nearest town. It's still hours away, so he lends them his car and they drive early in the morning instead of packing for an overnight stay.

“Not just yet,” Murphy says, and Connor is halfway through the door already as if the thought hadn't occurred to him in the first place. They're a bit clingy with having a home now, but they don't talk about that either.

The Father who picked them up belongs to the church in town. They stay for a while, praying longer than usual because there's nothing but time now; living out here comes with a tranquility that lets him forget about the urgency of cities, and while Murphy finds that he does miss urban life, the lines on Connor's face smooth out and the tension he carried around with him leaves, making his back straighter and his chin higher again until he can't find a fault in the quiet slowness any longer.

Before they leave, Murphy calls out to the priest and beckons him over. “I was wondering if ye could help with something,” he says, trying for a smile as Connor frowns.

The priest smiles back. “That's what I'm here for.”

“Good.” Murphy clears his throat. “Could you make a call for us? Just a short one-”

“Ma,” Connor rushes out.

“Aye. To let her know we're here and that we won't call or visit just yet.”

“For now,” Connor says. He leans closer, warm against his side.

“I've been waiting for you to ask,” says the priest. “I'm off to visit her this weekend, in fact.”

“Ye know her?”

“He does,” Connor says, sort of hectic. Murphy puts his hand on his shoulder and gets shrugged off. Before he can pull a face, Connor puts his own hand on his shoulder. “When ye know where she lives, ye don't need her number, no? Ye can tell her... I mean-”

“Yes, I will,” the priest says. “And I'll send word if she wants a message relayed herself.”

Murphy titters. “Good luck with that, then.”

Connor's hand stays on his arm throughout the ride back.

*

They begin to make plans.

First, it's their day-to-day life; who saddles the horses, who prepares breakfast, who counts the sheep. Time turns the tasks into routines, then they start exploring; endless plains of green dotted with sheep and cows and horses while they ride in easy silence, coats tight and collars turned up against the perpetual wind.

They bury their guns.

Every second week, Noah leaves like clockwork. He takes the car and drives a couple of towns over to buy whatever they're short of, and without fail, he stays the night. Connor thinks there's a girlfriend involved while Murphy suspects drinking. In the end, they agree on both and enjoy the days on their own even though nothing happens, ever.

They're brothers. Twins with one bed behind a locked door, wound tight in sleep, nothing more.

It's fine—if Connor had the fucking balls to say it out loud rather than leaving him hanging, starving, dying of fucking thirst. Connor doesn't, one way or the other.

They're drifting with the rest of their lives laid out before them, and it seems bloody endless without a goal.

*

The light filters through the window in a pale and gray mist, dust dancing in the early beginnings of what may be morning. It's thick, tickling in his nose, adding to the hair Connor shoved in his face. Everything in this house smells old, like stone and mold and dust—except for Connor who smells like they both do now; real.

“Swimming won't do this time of the year,” Connor says. “But we've done riding, exploring, and herding sheep.”

His elbow digs into the space between the mattresses. It's cold, it's always cold now, especially when no fire is burning yet. With closed eyes, Murphy fumbles for the blanket to cover more of them. “We'll get to it, eventually,” he says even though it's beyond him how Connor can think of swimming while he does his best not to perish by simply taking a shower.

Connor moves, scooting closer until he's practically lying on top of him, heavy as fuck. “Get a grip, ye knob,” he says. “There's something missing from yer great plan of activities.”

It's hard to breathe with the weight on his chest, but getting Connor to move requires movement of himself, and that he isn't ready for yet. Or to touch Connor, for that matter. Murphy opens his eyes and stares at the ceiling until his sleep-idle brain cooperates. “Camping?”

“Exactly.” Connor nods, rubbing his cheek over his chest in a fucking uncomfortable way. “Let's buy a tent.”

“It's fucking cold, Connor. If ye don't plan to die, we wait for a change of weather. Or season.”

“Let's buy a tent, Murph,” Connor says, moving yet a bit closer. Murphy frowns down at him, itching to shove him away and embrace him at the same time, and then Connor lifts his leg and slides it over his groin.

“Listen to me,” Murphy says—croaks, old and worn and bloody tired. “Ye stop leading me on now or I- I just-”

“I did.”

It's the fucking truth and Murphy doesn't want it. This is the first time in weeks, he simply pretended not to notice so he wouldn't have to bring it up. Hearing Connor admit it breaks something inside of him nonetheless, pressing sharp against his ribs. “Say it,” Murphy demands. “Fucking say it, then. Tell me fucking now before we have to- And I can still get a grip and- Just tell me.” Murphy stares without seeing and stomps down on a sob working its way up his throat, and then Connor's head floats in his line of sight and he can't hold it in after all.

“Christ,” Connor says, breath sour in his face. “We buy a fucking tent _today_ , aye? Right now. We buy it and then I'll tell ye.”

“No,” Murphy says because it's been too much for too long and there's nothing left in him to give anymore. “Say it or leave me be.”

Connor groans, deep and maybe angry, definitely unnerved with his face hovering above him. “I made up an entire speech,” he says roughly. “Don't ruin it.”

Murphy whines, breathing hard against the heavy weight of him. He's pressed into the mattress with nowhere to go, nowhere to turn to, and he doesn't know what to do anymore.

“Murph.” Connor slides off, propping himself on his elbow and cupping his face. “Murph,” he says again, and then he kisses him, dry and rough. Murphy whines again, an awful noise, humiliating, destroying his restraint. He surges up to chase after Connor's retreating lips and is pressed down again before he can succeed. “Not here.”

The humiliation hits its peak. He always wants more than Connor, always, it doesn't matter what or when or how—

“All right, fuck. But only a bit.”

This time, Connor's mouth is already open and he licks inside without hesitation, bitter and hot and the best thing since forever. Connor leans down on him, palm rough on Murphy's cheek and tongue cutting off his ability to breathe, taking complete control for once, at last, at the end of fucking things, groaning out quiet sounds that shoot right into Murphy's heart and deeper, raising his blood and setting his nerves on fire. Murphy swallows them all until Connor draws away again.

“Enough,” he rasps, lips red and pupils blown, making his eyes appear _so_ dark— “Jesus, Murph, quit looking at me like that.”

Murphy huffs out a laugh because Connor is right, of course; Noah is right next door. It's entirely inappropriate, all of it. He lies back and watches Connor climb out of bed and hurry into his clothes, cock bulging very nicely in his boxers. Murphy clears his throat. “A speech, aye?” He grins. “Only able to be held during camping, I gather?”

With his shirt halfway over his head, Connor gives him the finger. “Yer a brat,” he declares. “I'd say wait and see, but it's entirely possible I may change my mind about it.”

That sits for reasons he doesn't want to examine too closely.

He doesn't have to, either; he's pathetic, that's fucking why.

“For the love of everything good.” Connor stomps over and pulls at the covers. “Let's go right now,” he says, and it's possible there's shame on his face, and when he grips him with gentle hands, coaxing him out of bed and into his clothes like a mother then, it feels like an apology.

It doesn't change the fact that he's pathetic - because he fucking is - but at least Connor knows why.

Even if Connor apparently made his decision, it's been ages and his mind will need a while to get used to not being rejected time and again. It's all he knew when he wanted for himself instead of letting Connor string him along with silly games and teasing, with trying to please the Lord while getting _fucked_.

Maybe Connor thinks he's given him much, but saying he's weak and getting him to make the decisions only to fall down the rabbit hole afterward—Connor did all of that for himself. Even on the ship, it wasn't for _him_ , it didn't help, it wasn't good. If Connor's decision had fallen differently, it would've been a fucking awful last memory of them.

It's impossible, but Connor seems to sense the direction of his thoughts. Throughout the ride, he keeps in constant contact, little touches that stop him from straying further than a foot away even in the store where they buy camping gear and a two-man tent.

Back home, Connor goes so far as to press his leg against his during dinner, Noah one chair away. It's grounding, but Murphy still doesn't feel like chatting, anxious about tomorrow's trip without a fucking reason. It's clear as glass Connor won't haul him all the way out to wherever he plans to go only to end it once and for all. The thought alone is ridiculous, but he can't fucking shake it.

After they pack to leave at first light, Connor plasters himself to his back and drapes the covers over them. His hand strokes over Murphy's side, stirring his hair with every breath. “I'm sorry, love,” he mumbles. “I'm sorry it took me so long.”

Murphy sputters, shaky even in the darkness as Connor scoots closer.

“That's what I'm calling ye in my head,” he says lowly. “Might as well say it out loud.”

His touch isn't sexual by any means, and somehow, that makes it even harder to grasp, swelling Murphy's heart until he's sure it'll jump right out of his chest. Struggling to find words, he presses back against Connor's chest to let him know he heard.

Connor hums, stroking down the length of his arm, and takes his hand. “Ye forgive me?” he whispers, voice so quiet Murphy nearly misses it.

Of course he does.

He doesn't trust his voice. If he opens his mouth, it's possible he's going to do something hideous like starting to cry, so Murphy settles for a nod instead and buries himself in Connor's warmth.

For the longest while, it seems like Connor waits for an answer, as if he isn't convinced he'll be forgiven after all.

Having the upper hand feels better than he cares to admit. It makes his heart light, that's what it does, and it makes Connor keep up his light touches until he falls asleep as well.

*

Noah doesn't so much as twitch up his eyebrow as Connor tells him they will be gone until the next day.

Murphy sends a quick prayer upward to thank the Lord for Noah's strong sense of privacy, then they wrestle the tent on one of the horses - which takes about an hour since neither of them knows what they're doing - but they're in no hurry. He thinks, at least. Judging from Connor's sullen face throughout the preparations, his brother thinks differently.

When they leave, the sky is clear for once, no sign of impending rain even as the wind picks up and blows sharply from the south. They ride with a goal only Connor knows, spending their time in companionable silence until they let the horses rest for a while.

They sit against a tree, eating sandwiches in a sea of green, soft flowing hills around them, sheep and occasional houses in the distance. Beside him, Connor smokes in silence, eyes glazed over as he scans the horizon for whatever he's in search of. Murphy doesn't want to interrupt the peace, so he simply follows Connor's lead when his brother decides it's time to move on.

They make their slow way through the countryside until the sun begins to set and Connor, at long last, finds a spot he deems worthy enough.

There's sheep shit everywhere and a few scattered trees that look so ancient he wouldn't be surprised if a leprechaun peeked through the twisted branches, but he'll have to make do to hear the bloody speech, so Murphy fixes the tarp between the haunted trees to store the riding gear in case the weather doesn't hold - it never really does - and makes sure the horses stay where they are and graze in peace.

Setting up the tent almost ends in a fistfight until Murphy lets his bloody brother be unreasonable and marches off to gather branches and put his newly learned skills to use by starting a fire. A man of nature he is, all right. He's got the skills now, and if Connor thinks the tent is the important part here, he got it _wrong_.

For good measure, Murphy shoots him a dirty glance, then he sets up two cans over the fire to complete the picture of leaving everything urban about them behind.

When the tent stands, they settle with their food and the tension dissipates again, allowing him to lean back and sigh in contentment once he ate up, watching the smoke of both the fire and his cigarette curl up into the night. It's a nice contrast to the almost black sky above them, an eternal stretch of stars this far from the city.

Connor stretches his back with a wince. “Let's go inside.”

Into the tent. Where the speech is supposed to be held.

Murphy clears his throat and holds up his smoke to indicate he'll need a minute. Connor goes anyway, and Murphy finishes his smoke, then he takes one last look at the horses and tends to the fire so they won't burn to death during the speech and whatever may follow after.

No matter how much he strains his ears, he can't make out what Connor is up to inside, but it doesn't really matter, does it, it's not important, this is just a normal day, a trip, a—

Murphy huffs and follows Connor inside.

The small lamp between their bedrolls burns brightly, and once he zips up the entrance, it's cozy enough. Murphy takes his bedroll and spreads it out beside his brother. He's kneeling in prayer, eyes closed and rosary clasped in his hand, and Murphy tries to be quiet as he peels off his clothes, ready to call it a day and only a bit disappointed.

Maybe Connor's tongue will be looser come morning.

In search of warmth, Murphy shoves his toes under the bedroll and reaches for his rosary.

“Wait.” Connor makes an aborted gesture, startling Murphy into halting his movement. “Leave it,” he says, naked as the day he was born. He lifts his own rosary from his neck, places it on top of his clothes, and crawls over.

“Why?” Murphy cries, insane, gawking as Connor climbs in his lap and sits down heavily. The light of the lamp turns his skin a faint shade of orange. Between his thighs, Connor's cock is soft and heavy, goosebumps visible on his arms, and Murphy doesn't know what to do with any of it. “Made yer decision, aye?” he croaks.

“I've made up my mind a while ago, I was just too weak to stop pretending there has to be a reason for it.”

Murphy opens his mouth, ready to deny, but Connor raises his hand and stops him.

“We just—we are, Murph. Ye and me. I couldn't see that even when ye were so patient with me.” Connor glances up as Murphy circles his fingers around his wrist, then he averts his eyes again. “But there's something I need ye to know. It won't change yer mind, though.” He licks his lips. “Mine neither.”

“Then don't say it.”

“I have to,” Connor says, huffing, and he _does_ , because this is his speech and Murphy wants to hear it but he also dreads it. “Listen to me, aye?” Connor bends over, catching his eyes. “This is wrong,” he says. “Ye know it is, and if it's only because we'll never be able to share this with anyone. We won't ever do that, Murph and I- When I understood that, I realized something else.”

Murphy stares, looking at his strong and beautiful and brave brother, at how he lays himself bare, naked and unashamed and intimate. He's giving him everything, all of him. “And what's that?” Murphy whispers.

“That I don't want to,” Connor says at once. “I don't want to share ye. It's for us alone and everything else comes second.” He sighs, mouth twisted. “It makes me greedy and selfish and I don't care. Yer mine and everyone knows it, but the real extent, only ye know.”

“Con-”

Connor cradles his head, rough and urgent. “We'll burn for it,” he whispers. “We will, I stand by that. I won't confess it or pray over it, and I don't believe it was the Devil who lead us here either, but we _will_ get punished.” He breathes hard, eyes dark. “And that's fine with me.”

Murphy jerks back, dislodging Connor's hands. “How the fuck can that be all right?” he hisses, quiet, subdued because he knows he won. Connor is giving him everything and not because he's asking for it. He made the decision on his own, at last.

“Don't be thick,” Connor says, rather mild, and pulls him back in. “I have been in Hell, don't ye know?” He smiles, thumbs rubbing over Murphy's cheeks. “I've made my home there for years and years, Murph. Nothing will be as bad as it has been if ye go with me.”

It's enough. He's heard enough, this has to stop. He places his hands on Connor's hips, squeezing with enough pressure to get his point across. “Tell me what to do.”

Connor scoots forward, sliding over his thighs and catching intimately. “This is my reward now,” he whispers. “It isn't, though. Ye know it isn't.” He moves again, closing in until Murphy smells nothing but him, surrounded completely. “I want ye to love me in every way, aye? In every way. And then I want to do all of it to ye too.”

His voice sounds small as if he isn't sure he should be asking, and Murphy decides this, here and fucking now, will be the last time they ever speak of it. They've talked in circles for too long, prolonging their suffering to a point where everything seems vague and unsure.

“I will,” Murphy says. “We will.”

They kiss, unhurried and slow even as Connor wraps his arms around his neck and crowds in until his cock bumps against his belly, steadily filling out and pulling small sounds from his mouth into Murphy's own.

“Did ye pack...” Murphy whispers when he draws off for breath. Connor grins against him, beard tickling his lips, overall unhelpful. “Did ye bring the fucking balm, ye twat?”

“Nah.”

Murphy whines. “Why not? Ye bloody well carry it around everywhere else.”

“Because it got fucking unhygienic to use it by now,” Connor states, very wise for someone sitting in his lap with his cock poking him. “I bought lube, the real deal,” he adds, nodding at the small bottle beside his bedroll.

Of course.

Of course he came prepared again. It's his thing, it's—

“Get a move on, will ye?”

Murphy picks up the bottle and coats his fingers, stalling his brother as Connor scrambles to climb off. “Like this,” Murphy says, face warm, and then, to divert Connor's attention and because he has a mighty urge he didn't know he was having until now, he says, “Ye better be up for round two later. Can't wait to find out what this feels like.” He spreads his legs and Connor's with them, making room for his hand, and guides his finger through Connor's fierce clenching.

The angle is wrong and Connor's balls on his wrist feel quite weird.

They sort their limbs, getting rid of Murphy's boxers in the process, and then he's made to prop himself up on his hand and pull up his knees for Connor to lean back against them, and it's still not ideal but his mind is _set_ and it's so much better than the last time simply because he can look at Connor's face now.

He sees every twitch, each time Connor clamps his teeth around a sound, the way his eyes flutter close when Murphy crooks his fingers. He's too rough, he knows, and he pushes in too fast, but Connor bears down just as urgently, so Murphy only slows as he tries for a third finger and cranes his head for a kiss at the same time.

The space between them is too wide, making him groan until Connor gets the message and leans forward—too fast. Murphy loses his balance just as Connor rocks down on his fingers, then he falls over, legs snapping straight with the force and fingers buried to the fucking hilt.

On the ground, he grunts.

Connor laughs.

“Okay,” Murphy wheezes, peeling the chain of his rosary from his neck to breathe again, and then his own laugh gets stuck in his throat as Connor lifts up, braces himself against his chest, and sinks down on his fingers again.

“Guess I'm ready,” Connor says, managing to sound sheepish and bloody alluring at the same time. He takes the lube and coats Murphy's cock with quick fingers.

“Wait.” Murphy sits up, but Connor doesn't, in fact, wait, so Murphy pulls out his fingers and grinds his jaw against the fucking mighty urge to thrust as Connor bloody fucking wiggles on top of him to find the right angle to take him in.

“What for?” Connor asks and _sits_ , and Murphy rushes out a breath, fingers tight on his hips.

He forgot. There's nothing in his head and there isn't enough room to thrust either.

Desperate, Murphy shoves his hands under Connor's arse to help with the actual fucking and remembers he wanted to kiss him, before, but Connor slings his arms around his neck, elbows digging into his shoulders, and there still isn't enough friction.

It's perfect.

Murphy splays his fingers over Connor's tattoo, the Chi Rho, the one he put on Connor's skin, pressing tight enough it may leave a bruise.

It's real.

Connor moans and bites and swats at his arms, pressing closer with all of his weight until Murphy has to lean back on his hands so they won't fall over again, and then Connor is doing all the work, from one moment to the next. His rhythm isn't more than a roll of his hips, but judging from his noises, these lovely high sounds Murphy could get addicted to, it's exactly what Connor needs.

“Can't much longer,” he breathes, and Murphy watches, panting, staring on as Connor rides him.

“Gotta try that,” Murphy informs him as Connor bows his head with a shudder. “Aye, we gotta...” He swallows, reaching down, and wraps his fingers around Connor's cock. It's warm and heavy in his palm, jumping to meet him. “Ye do it right after, aye? Can ye? Con.”

Connor stills. He twitches around his cock, under his fingers, on his thighs. “Fuck,” he says and sits down so heavily, Murphy gets his breath knocked out of him. He can't fucking see from it, and then come spreads between them, smearing everywhere, and Murphy pumps him through as Connor kisses him again, something he's fond of after coming, something Murphy knows by now, he knows, he knows—he holds Connor in place and fucks into him once, twice, and then it's over.

“Know what, love?” Connor asks, panting and grinning at the same time. He's sweaty and Murphy loves him.

Blinking, he tries to wade through the mist in his mind and flops on his back as Connor climbs off. He stares at the ceiling of the tent. It flickers in the orange light, swaying in the wind. If he strained his ears, he's sure he'd hear the soft sounds of their horses nearby; a snort, hooves pawing at the ground. Maybe, if the tent were made of glass, he could see the stars above, through the gnarly branches of the haunted tree.

Murphy grins because he's being fucking stupid, and then he remembers several things at once. “Ye like kissing, after,” he says, squinting over at where Connor wipes himself clean. “That's what I remembered. Ye do it every time.”

Connor grunts, sort of vague, and Murphy rolls his eyes and onto his stomach. His cock drags over the zipper of his bedroll, forcing a hiss out of him just as the cross digging into his ribs does.

“Murph.”

He can't see him, only hear Connor's voice, still thick with lust, sending an almost painful shock of arousal through him. This is his, forever. He swallows and parts his legs as far as they will go in his flat position.

“Ye don't... Doesn't matter what ye said.” Connor grips his thigh, fingertips digging into his muscles. “We don't have to.”

Sweat cools on his body, itchy and vaguely gross, and with the flap of the tent closed and no fucking window anywhere, the smell of sex hangs so heavily in the air, Murphy titters for a moment. Then he lifts his hips and wiggles.

The lube snaps open.

“And _I_ know,” Connor stresses, “that yer fucking pliant, after. Look at ye, not even cooled down and still so fucking-”

“Hush.”

It's the reason why he wants to try it before he had time to come down and possibly clamp down as well. He fucking knows himself, and being relaxed isn't one of his strong suits. Now, Connor could do anything to him and he'd be fine with it. Connor should know that, or maybe he already does. It's not important. He's too worn out to explain it to him and decides to focus on the slick finger probing him instead, breathing through the initial discomfort, the weird wrongness which his body decides is happening.

The sound of Connor's small 'oh' as his finger slips in.

As if Connor hadn't thought he'd let him, as if he still wonders, after all this time, about the extent of his craving for him.

The last reservations he had about Connor's decision dissolves into thin air just because Connor seems so bloody enthralled with what he's doing. Murphy's mind goes on vacation for a while, solely focusing on Connor instead of his own body. His brother wants this so badly, he's so fucking needy, mumbling a constant stream of nonsense, fingers gentle and insisting at the same time—it's fucking freeing.

When his heart is about ready to burst and he's sure Connor could fit anything up his arse by now, Murphy heaves himself up on his hands and knees. He isn't strong enough to stay in that position yet, but he's willing to try.

Connor lets out a ragged breath, slicking up before he nudges him, blunt and thick.

It's weird.

It hurts.

Every time Murphy thinks that must've been it, that Connor must be inside all the way, it goes on and on and on, stretching him impossibly. He pants out a string of high noises, hiding them despite knowing he doesn't have to, and then his arms give out. He plans to sprawl on his front, but Connor catches him by his hips, arse in the air, stuffed to the brim, and cock twitching in the embarrassing position.

Then he _is_ lying down, suddenly.

“Murphy,” Connor says, and for some reason, his voice is right by his ear.

Murphy grunts, but it comes out as a moan instead.

“Hush,” Connor says, the twat, and drapes himself over his back. He takes his hands, pulls them up, and clasps them next to his head, pinning him fully, crushing him. When he moves, he rolls like a wave; Murphy feels his muscles roll over him from head to toe.

“Fuck,” Murphy breathes—sobs, possibly. He's too full and Connor is too heavy and his cock drags over the uneven fabric of the bedroll, and he's pushing back, jutting his hips back to get Connor to slide in deeper, then away again, trying to flee the impossible fullness and—

“Jesus Christ,” Connor croaks. “Jesus Christ, we can never ever do this anywhere but out here.” He rubs against him all over everywhere, catching on hair, sliding through sweat and lube and come, and Murphy shudders at the thought of not being able to wash until they're home again.

The idea is so ridiculous he laughs, but it comes out as a moan again.

“Yer gonna make the fucking sheep blush,” Connor mutters, thrusting sharply, and that sets Murphy off for real; he's giggling like a madman even as Connor snaps his hips to make him stop. His throat gets bitten and Connor threatens him, very serious, and Murphy cries with laughter.

“Enough.” Connor withdraws so abruptly, Murphy chokes on a breath.

Hands grip him, then his back slams against the hard ground and Connor pulls his legs apart like he's a bloody woman and pushes inside again in a matter of seconds. “Shut up, love.” Connor's face is burning. He looks out of control, fucking wild. Beautiful. Murphy has to tell him, he has to—he does.

Connor lowers himself, sliding in deeper with the new angle, and kisses him again. Murphy wraps his legs around him, then his arms, staring up in wonder because he's oversensitive and his mind can't seem to catch up on the new input, the feeling of someone moving inside of him, being on this end of it while his cock slowly drags between them and fills back out.

They slow down, taking their time until it goes on for much longer than the round before, and he enjoys it, he does.

He likes the other way better nonetheless, and maybe, possibly, he sees the same in Connor's face; in how his lips move against his, how his stubble burns his skin, how his eyes close in a whisper. It's still good. He wouldn't want to miss out on this for anything, and there's so much more to focus on than only his cock, he doesn't expect it when he comes. He moans out of surprise, craning his head to see the evidence of it.

“Thank fuck,” Connor says. He bows his head and stills, coming with a sound so small Murphy barely hears it, but with his ears only. His heart does, swelling like the loser he is, and inside, he feels it too, a strange liquid warmth he didn't know he wanted to experience until now.

Connor lets out a final sigh, then he grins and bumps their noses. “Here it comes,” he says, and then they're kissing.

“I'll sleep for a week,” Murphy whispers in-between, blinking up at his brother and his kind eyes.

“All right,” Connor says as if he's set to make it happen.

Boneless isn't enough to describe what he's feeling. Murphy drops his legs, wincing as Connor pulls out, and has trouble keeping his eyes open as Connor takes care of him like he always does, though his movements are slow with exhaustion as well. He still wipes them down and shoves at him until Murphy rolls onto Connor's bedroll. They use the other as a blanket, trapping their warmth.

This is a cave, a good one.

It's theirs now.

Connor leans over him, on his elbow, lips pursed and fingers tapping against the rosary on Murphy's chest. Murphy waits with half-closed eyes, too happy and tired to feel anxious, and then nothing comes in any case. With a shrug, Connor turns off the light and they tangle beneath the bedroll-blanket.

When his voice does come, it sounds small, “We'll make this a habit, aye? At the latest when Da goes into town?” Connor's fingers dance over his arm, fast and nervous. “We can't do much in the house cause- Murph, ye get really loud, ye know that? And- But a bit of the rest, if ye want. And then out here-”

Yes, Murphy thinks. Yes, yes, yes.

Then he whispers it as well.


End file.
